


Five Threads

by ElStormo



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 313,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElStormo/pseuds/ElStormo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five people begin their own stories, finding their way in the world. But lives rarely leave each other untouched, and paths that run as high as they can, will sooner or later cross. When they do, some walk together, and others will do all they can to push the other off the path and into the depths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falnas: To Catch a Thief

**FALNAS**

**To Catch a Thief**

**City of Riften**

 

As luck would have it, Falnas arrived in Riften on market day, his favourite day of the week, no matter what the actual day was, it was different in every city. Market day meant there weren’t just the usual stalls in the market place, the vegetable and fruit stands, the butcher’s stall, and all that sort of low-profit chump-change opportunities, no, on market day the other merchants came, and those brought the chances for some good business. For themselves, and for Falnas.

It wouldn’t be as easy here as it would be in Morrowind, of course. A Dunmer tended to stand out, and the mostly Nordic population of Tamriel still tended to associate a dark skin with subterfuge and deception. Completely unjustified of them, of course, Falnas thought to himself, grinning. True, these people were simpler and less perceptive than his fellow Dunmer, but on the other hand, if you got caught stealing in Skyrim, most people didn’t turn you in to the authorities, they simply chased you with a butcher’s knife or a woodcutter’s axe. What happened then depended on whose legs gave out first.

Falnas was rather confident he’d be able to make a quick septim or two here, however. Markets were deliciously busy, and the people wonderfully carefree. He’d have to be careful for one of them though, a powerful-looking blonde Nord woman with a big battle axe on her back and blue dye on one side of her face. She didn’t wear a guard’s armour, but Falnas was certain, from the look in her eyes, that she considered herself in charge of protecting this city. Right now her eyes were set on a dark-haired woman in an expensive-looking blue dress, adorned with jewelry. That seemed like a wonderful target, even though she looked more aware and perceptive than most of the dullards around here. She looked Breton or Cyrodiilic, Falnas could not say. At that moment, the dark-haired woman looked back at the blonde manbitch, and shot her a look of annoyance and hostility. The blonde crossed her arms and stared back, betraying no emotion.

Hmmm, power struggles in this little hamlet. Always good opportunities for profit.

But first, business at hand. Inconspicuously, Falnas got closer to the dark-haired woman, moving effortlessly through the crowd, and resisting the temptation to snatch a coin purse or two while he was at it – no point getting caught and having to make an escape over a few lousy septims when there was a rich woman hung with gold to rob. She was inspecting rolls of silk now, and the gold and diamond brooch she wore on her chest seemed to be worth a small fortune. Brooches were always easy to steal. Necklaces, you had to tear them off, which meant you had to reveal yourself, rings were even harder, and earrings, well, Falnas hated blood. He was a thief, not a vulgar mugger. A job well done was a job the mark didn’t notice until Falnas was far away. It was how you didn’t get caught.

He shouldered closer to the black-haired woman, and as she held up a sample of silk against the pale sunlight, he walked up to her, meaning to bump into her ‘by accident’ (always a classic) and unpin the brooch and pocket it in a single, ephemeral movement. Shame he had to stay undetected, a good squeeze in the stuck-up rich woman’s tit would have been a nice bonus.

“I have a few questions for you,” a Nord-accented female voice interrupted his operation, and he quickly withdrew his hand, cursing silently as a golden opportunity was ruined. The dark-haired woman turned towards the blonde with the axe. “Ugh. Mjoll, ‘the Lioness’. Must you pester me at every turn?”

“Another of the Amberblossom employees was found floating face-down in the canal last night.”

The dark-haired woman shrugged and gave a contemptuous sneer. “An unfortunate accident, I’m sure?”

“Someone unfortunately falling on his back, holding a knife,” the Nord said, her eyes narrowing. “A lot of dead brewers in one week. One mauled by dogs, one disappeared entirely, and now a third, stabbed during the night.”

“These streets are dangerous, Mjoll,” the other woman replied confidently. The crowd, including Falnas, had all stopped to gawk at the exchange. “It’s unfortunate that so many thieves and killers still stalk these streets at night. They kill a man over a septim or two, I’ve heard.”

“I know the streets are dangerous at night,” the Nord bit back. “And I want it to stop.”

The woman in the dark blue dress gave the Nord a flighty snort. “Report it to the guard, then.”

“The guard? You mean those corrupt fools you have in your pocket?”

The other brought a hand to her chest, acting wounded. “But my dear, why _ever_ would you suggest such a thing? I’m only a legitimate businesswoman. I’m not the criminal, those cutthroats at night are.” She brought her face closer to the blonde. “I’ve heard they stop at nothing. I’d watch my step at night, if I were you. This whole vigilante thing is so very dangerous. It’d be unfortunate if the guards found a lioness floating face-down in the canal one morning.”

The blonde’s face contorted in a snarl, and she took a step forward, grabbing the rich woman by the front of her dress, pushing her backward into the crowd. “You dare threaten me?” the Nord snarled, spit flying from her lips. As the mass of people tried to surge away from the woman in blue, Falnas saw his chance and with his fingertips, he removed the brooch from the woman’s dress, sending it sliding down his sleeve in the same motion. “You’re a murderer,” the Nord continued, “and I will see you brought to justice, mark my words!”

“I suggest you let go of me right now, or I shall report you to the guard for assault,” Falnas heard the black-haired woman calmly threaten as he slunk away, slipping through the crowd, his heart racing. The brooch had been the catch of the century. He didn’t care much for whatever it was between those women, all he wanted was to find a fence. He knew someone here, pretty thing called Sapphire, had links to the Thieves’ Guild, she’d be able to find a buyer for this tacky but valuable eyesore. How anyone could adorn themselves with such a gaudy piece of jewelry was beyond him, but what mattered was that people paid a lot of money for it.

He’d last contacted Sapphire at the Bee and Barb, the local tavern, so he made his way there, hoping she’d still be there, and true enough, he immediately saw her sitting at a table, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a goblet of wine and regarding all the other patrons with her usual look of suspicion mixed with disdain. She was good-looking, for sure, but personality like stone. Falnas briefly wondered why she was that way, but he supposed it was none of his business. He’d asked her if there might be any vacancies within the Thieves’ Guild, but every time, she’d simply snorted and told him to come back in a few years.

“Ugh, Falnas,” the young woman grunted when he sat down opposite her. “Brought me another fake gold chain, have you?”

He’d never live that one down.

“That was two years ago, Sapphire,” Falnas reminded her. “And all my other loot’s been good after that.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, annoyed. “Got anything good? Or just the usual two-septim junk?”

His smile as broad as he could make it, Falnas said, “No junk. At least a thousand. Easily.”

Her interest peaked, Sapphire leaned forward. “It’s twenty percent for me and the Guild, as always. Now what do you have?”

After briefly looking through the inn to make sure no one was watching them, Falnas took the brooch from his sleeve and laid it out on the table, then gave Sapphire his most winning smile.

He very briefly saw a strange look in the woman’s eyes when she beheld the brooch, but it was gone as soon as he’d noticed it. “This’ll take some time,” she said. “Meet me… uh,” she had to think for a while. “You know where the Ratway is?”

Falnas nodded. Of course he knew. It was supposedly a sewer complex, but it was a public secret that the Thieves’ Guild had their headquarters in there. If his luck was in, this might just mean she’d lead him to the Guild. Trying to find it alone was suicide – the Ratway was a maze filled with traps, deadfalls, concealed doors and whathaveyou, and if you didn’t know where you were going, you got lost and never came back out. That she wanted to meet there meant she’d hopefully show him where the Guild was. She had better, because few thieves could swipe prizes like these.

“Meet me there after nightfall,” Sapphire said hastily, rising from her chair and marching through the door, throwing a furtive glance through the common room as she did so.

Falnas saw no reason to be nervous, and ordered himself a goblet of whatever it was Sapphire had been drinking.


	2. Keljarn: Under a Red Moon

 

**KELJARN**

**Under a Red Moon**

**Near the city of Whiterun**

  
Even for one with Nordic blood like Keljarn, the nights in Skyrim were cold if you didn’t spend them in the warmth of your home, or between the sheepskins in a comfortable inn room. His parents had emigrated to High Rock a while ago, his mother’s homeland, and certainly, its nights were warmer, but Keljarn had always felt his heart lay in Skyrim, and now that he was of age, his mother could no longer stop him from returning home, a decision his father had welcomed, even if he hadn’t dared to say it.

Keljarn had no intention of standing at the gates of Sovngarde just yet, but the blood of the warrior flowed through him, this he had always known. His body was built for battle, it was that simple, and the prospect of leading the life of the rich daddy’s boy back in High Rock had simply become more and more unattractive as the years passed. So he’d left, back to Skyrim, back to his home, because he simply considered his half-Breton lineage to be nothing more than a detail. He was a Nord, and as a Nord he wanted to live. His parents had offered to give him a sizeable stipend of septims for the journey, but he’d refused, taking only a small amount, enough to cover the costs of the trek. He knew he’d have plenty of opportunities to earn a good living on his own, without his parents’ help, much as he loved them.

He walked across the rolling plains, passing a few mills and what looked like a brewery as night fell, and stars rose in the clean, clear Skyrim heaven he had so longed to return to. The stars were beautifully visible. There was a red moon out today, but its light was currently blocked by the only cloud in the sky. He stopped for a moment, relishing the feeling of the heavy hatchet on his shoulder, breathed in the cold air through his nose, and smiled. Home at last.

When he opened his eyes again, they settled on the outline of a city, dark against the night sky, lights dotting its walls. It had been years and years since he’d been in Skyrim, but if his memory served, he was close to the city of Whiterun, and there he’d find the cosy inn room Skyrim’s nights were so cold without. He resumed marching, hoping to reach the city gates in an hour or two.

A group of lights danced to his right, a hundred or so metres away. Keljarn stopped again and kept his eye on them. They were moving rather quickly, as if the ones that held them were running. What were they running toward, though?

And then he saw it, barely visible against the night sky was the dark shape of an enormous humanoid, easily standing three or four men high. It was the first time Keljarn had ever seen a giant, but he knew those monsters could easily smash a whole squad of men and mer into the ground. And these fools were running straight for him. In the darkness, he estimated there were only four of them. They ran to their deaths.

Without thinking, Keljarn shrugged off his pack and broke into a run, gripping the hatchet in his hand tightly. As he ran, the sound of a roaring woman came towards him, and he saw one of the lights being thrown backward, sailing through the air and ending up several metres further.

The moon finally broke through as the only cloud at last ceded its place and moved away. In the new light, he saw that three of the humans were still on their feet, dodging the giant’s clumsy but terribly powerful blows, and one of them lay a few metres further, moving but doubtless incapacitated for the rest of the fight. The giant himself looked like a grotesque, gangly, gray-skinned tree-trunk.

He had almost reached them now. The only female in the group dodged a wild swing with a spectacular backwards somersault, landed on her feet, drew her bow, and planted an arrow square in the giant’s thigh, while one of the males let his axe bite deep into the giant’s fingers as it tried to scoop him up. Keljarn heard his own breath, heavy in his ears as he ran.

Even with the arrow in its leg, the giant brought its foot up to stomp the remaining male into the dirt, but he deftly rolled to the side, and the giant’s foot did nothing more than shake the ground. The woman nocked another arrow and let fly, this one striking the giant in the shoulder. The giant growled in anger more than in pain, and swung the torn-out tree trunk he used as a club at one of the men, who couldn’t dodge in time. Keljarn heard the hard, hollow blow as the giant’s club caught the man in the side, lifting him off his feet and sending him to the ground, his ribs doubtless broken and his organs probably turned to paste in his chest.

Frantically, the woman drew her bow again, but her shot hit the giant’s satchel, the arrow glancing off and flying end over end through the air. The remaining man took a swing at the giant’s thigh, but missed.

With a loud roar, Keljarn launched himself into the air, his fingers hooking into the furs the giant wore. Setting one foot in the back of the giant’s knee, Keljarn pushed himself off and up he went, grabbing first the giant’s belt, and then the shoulder strap of his satchel. The giant bellowed, finally realizing there was a human clinging to him, and clumsily began to reach for his back, trying to pluck the pesky nuisance off of him. Keljarn heard another zip of an arrow, a short _thud_ , and the giant howled again. Grabbing the collar of bones the giant wore around his neck, Keljarn brought his axe up with his free hand. Another arrow zip-thudded into the giant’s flesh, and the monster roared again, swaying from the impact, making Keljarn’s feet lose their purchase, and he hung free from the giant, only his left hand clinging to the bone necklace, and his body swinging wildly as the giant moved.

“Aela, stop, you’ll knock him off!” he heard a man’s voice shout below.

No more zip-thuds came, and with one hand, Keljarn sent the head of his hatchet swinging at the back of the giant’s bald head. There was a hollow _thwock_ as the axe head chopped into the giant’s skull, and blood leaked out from the cleft the axe had made. The giant stood, seemingly paralyzed, for a short moment, and staggered a few steps forward and began falling.

Keljarn threw himself to the side and landed in the grass, painfully bruising himself even as he tried to roll to absorb the blow. His teeth clacked together as he came to a stop against a large boulder, and pain flared up from his shoulder and ribs. A groan escaped from between his clenched teeth.

He opened his eyes again to see the giant lying on his face, the handle of his hatchet still sticking out the back of his head. Both remaining fighters kneeled by one of their companions. “Farkas will be fine,” the male called to the woman. “Brains got a bit scrambled, but we won’t notice much difference,” he added with a chuckle.

“Not so for Athis,” the woman called back. “He needs a healer, and quickly.”

The man stood up and marched toward the two others. As he painfully got to his feet, Keljarn could see the fallen figure the man had kneeled over slowly rising, holding his head.

“Athis!” the man called, standing over his fallen friend. “Hold on, we’ll get you a healer.”

“No need,” Keljarn said hoarsely, wobbling toward them. “Let me.”

The woman looked up at him, “You know any Restoration spells?”

“Just the bare basics,” Keljarn said, dropping to his knees next to the fallen man, a Dunmer with white face paint and an elfhawk haircut. He’d been hit by the giant’s tree trunk, and the side of his torso was badly dented. Closing his eyes and taking a breath to clear his head, Keljarn let the energies flow through him as he wove a Restoration spell, taught to him by his mother. White globes of light formed from his fingers, hovering toward the injury and enveloping it, the ribs snap-cracking back into place. Keljarn was a whelp at Restoration, so if the man had truly been mortally injured, there was no way he could have saved him, but thankfully for him, he was only suffering from a few broken ribs, and those he could treat. All Keljarn hoped now was that the Dunmer didn’t have a collapsed lung, because that would take the skill of a magnificent healer to treat. “I think that took care of the worst. He needs to rest now, though,” Keljarn said.

The Dunmer’s rapid, panicked breathing calmed and his eyes opened to slits. “Thanks… friend,” he managed to utter.

“Stay still, Athis,” the kneeling man said. “We’ll get you back to the Hall.”

The other man had come to stand with them. “Sorry for not being more useful.”

Neither of the warriors responded to that, and they and Keljarn rose to their feet. “That was damn spectacular,” the woman said, and for the first time Keljarn got a good look at her face. She was beautiful, not like the pampered and made-up Breton maidens his mother had tried to get him to court, with their upturned noses and braided blonde hairs, but like a _real_ woman, naturally beautiful and radiating strength and confidence. “What’s your name?” She had war paint on her face, three diagonal slashes of blue that only made her more breathtaking.

The uninjured man chuckled and said to Keljarn, “When you’re done being struck dumb, how ‘bout answering the lady?”

“Oh, right, sorry. Keljarn.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Vilkas, and this is my brother Farkas. The woman bringing stars to your eyes is Aela. The crybaby on the ground is Athis. Thanks for your help.”

Keljarn shook the man’s hand. They were brothers alright, one with shoulder-length hair and a stubble beard, the other slightly more powerfully built, with slightly longer hair and a fuller beard. “It’s no problem, felt good to get the blood pumping a little bit.”

The man with the longer beard laughed. “Ha! That’s the way we like it, right brother?”

Vilkas did not seem entirely pleased with his brother’s rather naïve candour, but he still said, “You did us a great service today, and we won’t forget it.”

Aela gave him a smile which made her even more beautiful and said, “Care to accompany us to Jorrvaskr?”

Keljarn had heard the name, but he didn’t know what Jorrvaskr was exactly. It didn’t matter much either. These people seemed like proud and powerful fighters, and he seemed to have made an impression on them. He knew better than to let such a chance pass.

  
  



	3. Siari: Innocence Lost

**SIARI**

**Innocence Lost**

**City of Windhelm**

 

Shit, they’d put something in her food. Or her drink. The world began spinning even before Siari had taken her second boot off, and on one bare foot, she desperately tried to keep her balance, snatching at whatever handhold she could find, her vision blurring. Flailing for support, she knocked the candlestick off the cabinet, and the room went dark before she could hear, miles away, the fake silver candlestick hit the ground.

She couldn’t call for help. She wouldn’t even make it to the door, her head spinning and her knees giving out. After a few drunken staggers, her legs went completely numb and she fell, back down on her bed, one hand feebly snatching at the air.

Before her consciousness faded, she realized this had been sure to happen. There were always loose ends, always ways to trace a murderer, no matter how careful you’ve been. A witness noticing you from a hidden place, a drop of blood taken to a mysticist, some last words a victim could impart before dying – and every murderer was found. If not by his or her victims, then by another killer who didn’t tolerate competition, or by secret organisations employed by the authorities, whose goals weren’t to make arrests, but to simply make criminals disappear. Even master killers eventually vanished or turned up dead, and she’d been nothing like those trained assassins, so it had been inevitable that someone had found her.

As Siari’s mind sank away into darkness, she confessed to herself that she was getting what she deserved, whatever it was. Even if they had been children, they’d been witnesses, and they’d seen her, standing over the bed of the wicked old hag that ran the orphanage and drawing her blade across their hated tormentor, pushing her hand onto the old woman’s mouth to keep her down and to keep her quiet while the life bled from her throat, black in the darkness of the orphanage. She’d pushed as hard as she could, breaking the old fragile nose under her hand with a slow crunching, so the old bitch was perfectly quiet and still, her eyes wide and staring at her killer… had there been recognition in the eyes? Recognition of the face of one that was no longer a child, but not yet a woman? Or had it been a realization of some sort, that she silently confessed to having deserved these last moments, bleeding out like a pig, because of how she’d treated the children? Even those that had grown up to be young women now? Maybe. It hadn’t mattered in the end.

And so, as the old woman had gotten her just come-uppance, so would she. She didn’t feel much, no pain, no burning inside, just dizziness and nausea. Death by poison had always been told to be much more painful than what people thought, but this… wasn’t really… painful, it was… just… like… falling… asleep…  
  



	4. Acrus: Thirst for Knowledge

**ACRUS**

**Thirst for Knowledge**

**City of Markarth**

 

Another shop, another disappointment. Acrus was getting tired of eking out a living with sorcery displays in the town squares of Skyrim, depending on the generosity of gawking peasants. Every shop he’d been to had offered the same worthless repertoire of cantrip spells for sale. Oakflesh, Candlelight, Sparks, always the same unimpressive spell tomes passing through his fingers. He’d been warned that finding spells would be difficult when he told his mentor he’d be leaving Cyrodiil for Skyrim, and at the time, he’d nodded and humoured the old man, but it turned out he’d been right, and it made Acrus wish he’d simply enrolled in the Arcane University, back in the Imperial City. But that would have meant travelling across Cyrodiil to get a recommendation from the Mages’ Guild in every city, and Acrus simply refused to be sent on errands across the province just to be granted access to the University.

So much to his mentor’s protests, Acrus had simply up and left, travelling North to Skyrim, where the magicka was more to his liking, not the word-for-word incantations taught in the University, but a rawer, more primal manipulation of elements. Where in Cyrodiil magic was practiced with the brain, a science to be methodically studied and employed, in Skyrim it was practiced with the soul, instinct and willpower making it possible to bend the laws of nature. Or so he’d heard.

It made sense, then, that not many magic tomes were found in Skyrim’s shops, since the mages of Skyrim simply had a different approach to magic. He’d briefly considered enlisting a mentor in Skyrim as he had in Cyrodiil, but mentors were scandalously expensive, and his inheritance had just about run out.

Just as he threw the last of the shopkeeper’s tomes back onto the table with a disappointed sigh, the shop owner’s assistant, a lovely young alchemist with an elegant blue facial tattoo making a stripe over her nose from one cheek to the other, asked him, “If you’re looking for spells, why don’t you go to the College of Winterhold?”

Wait, there was a College of magic in Skyrim? And nobody had told him of that?

“Excuse me? College of Winterhold?”

The young apothecary looked suddenly guilty, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have. Still, she clarified, “Well, yes. Almost on the northmost end of Skyrim lies the village of Winterhold. There’s supposed to be a College of Magic there.”

The old shop owner, an old Breton woman with wicked-looking tribal facial tattoos (what did these Skyrim people have with face tattoos?), promptly scolded, “Muiri! The College already has to turn down most of its applicants. I doubt they’ll have the time for a wandering hedge wizard.”

Being called a hedge wizard should have made Acrus’ blood boil, but he stayed calm, as he always did unless there was magic to be cast, and he asked again, “Can you tell me where this College lies, exactly?”

After an insecure look at her employer, the girl called Muiri explained again, “Um, head Northeast until you come to the sea. Follow the coastline, past Solit – ”

“Muiri!” the old woman interrupted again. “There’s no point sending this young man all the way to Winterhold for no reason. The College isn’t taking new members anyway.”

Regardless, the young woman continued, “… past Solitude, keep following the shoreline East, you’ll reach Winterhold eventually.”

The old shop owner let out a grunting sigh of disappointment and devoted her attention to the mortar she was crushing mountain flowers in.

But Acrus had more important concerns than flowers or potions. He had places to be.


	5. Roë: Night Eyes

**ROË**

**Night Eyes**

**City of Solitude**

 

She had to admit to herself, she was somewhat tipsy. But it wasn’t like she hadn’t earned it. That last damn assignment had been pure misery, slogging through the marshes for two days to find a dragon that hadn’t even been there. What kind of gullible halfwit believed in dragons anyway?

She’d been spared the frostbite to her toes unlike Gethor. Skyrim wasn’t really a place for Bosmer like them, but when your parents move to the coldest reaches of the world to join the Penitus Oculatus at the Emperor’s invitation, you had no choice but to come along. And no matter the blood in her veins, she’d lived in Skyrim most of her life, so she was used to the climate. Gethor, who’d only arrived two years ago, never stopped complaining. Still, for all his curmudgeonly behaviour, she’d bonded well with him. They were the only two Bosmer in the Solitude guard, so they naturally gravitated towards each other, and she’d gotten to know him well enough to smile every time he went off on another complaining spree.

The cold air drove the buzz from her mind, but only a bit. It wasn’t like she was staggering, but the mead had flowed freely, and even though she’d gotten used to the high alcohol content in Skyrim’s preferred drink, enough had been enough. There’d be a slight hangover tomorrow, but things had remained dignified, and even if they hadn’t, no guard’s uniform meant no need to mind the exemplary function.

“You going to be alright, Ro’?” Kunod, like most of the guard, had never bothered to pronounce her name correctly. Like most of them, he pronounced her name “Roh” instead of “Ro-ay.” Roë didn’t attribute it to a lack of respect, just the typical easygoing nature of the people here. “Want me to uh… walk you home?”

Oh, sweet Kunod. He’d been rather taken with her from the start, and not made a secret out of it, in his shy and clumsy way, but she hadn’t reciprocated. Not because she had anything against the man, but because the feelings he hoped she had were simply not there. Sometimes she’d wished they had been, because Kunod was attentive and kind, if a bit awkward, but she couldn’t change the reality of it.

“No, Kunod, thanks, I’ll be fine.” Letting him walk her home would cause all sorts of complications. Complications she didn’t really need or want, she was perfectly happy just doing her job with the guard and coming home to an empty house.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Go on, get some sleep, didn’t you have day duty tomorrow?”

He gave an embarrassed grin. “Yes, but it’s at the gate. No one will notice if I’m tired and hung over.”

Gethor stumbled out of the tavern, almost crashing into them. Unlike Roë and Kunod, he’d been really going at it, downing one goblet of mead after another. “Ro-ayyyy,” he slurred. “When are you and,” hiccup, “K-Kunod finally huh… hooking up?”

Oh dear, this was uncomfortable. “Gethor,” she said, holding him up, “you need to go to bed, come on.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Kunod said, taking the ailing guardsman from her.

“You twuh…two would make a gr… eat couple,” Gethor mumbled. “The struh… strong, powerful Nord _buck_!” he practically shouted the word, “... and the fruh…hail delicate El… Elven beauty!’ He made an animalistic growl, accompanied by a randy fist pump.

And here Roë thought this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

“If you two don’t get together soon,” Gethor garbled, pointing a shaking finger at her, “I’m m… marrying you mysuh… myself, Roë.”

“Shush, Gethor. Kunod, make sure he ends up in his bed, alright?”

There was a strange expression on Kunod’s face, but she was pretty sure what it meant. “Sure, Ro’, I’ll get him home safe.”

As Kunod half-dragged the drunk-of-his-ass Gethor down the road, she heard drunken off-key singing. “Ro-ayyy! With her silky pale bl- blonde haiiirrrr! Ro-ayyyy! Guardswoman oh so,” hiccup, “faiirrrrr!”

“Gethor,” Kunod’s irritated heavy voice came from down the road. “Knock it off.”

Smiling to herself, she hoped the mer didn’t recall anything in the morning. If he didn’t ask, she wouldn’t tell, and Kunod was a firm believer in the holy secrecy of drunken evenings, so with any luck, Gethor would be spared the embarrassing recollection.

Taking a breath and letting out a quiet, dignified burp, Roë set off towards home. Her parents were part of Emperor Titus Mede’s close protection team, so they were rarely in town, but even then, she’d bought her own house as soon as she’d been able to, a small but cosy corner cubbyhole with not much more than a bed, a table and a chair, but since she only used her home for sleeping, eating and composing, she needed little more.

Noticing her tread wasn’t completely straight, she chuckled to herself, admitting quietly that maybe she was a bit more drunk than she’d thought at first. Still, her mild hangover would be nothing like the rabid horse Gethor would have in his head tomorrow.

Buzzed or not, her trained guardswoman instincts didn’t fail her, and as she walked through the narrow alley leading to her house, her senses alerted her to footsteps behind her. It was an unholy hour, and whoever was roaming the streets of Solitude now was either a mead-appreciator like her, or a criminal.

Walking on, pretending she hadn’t noticed, she listened intently to the footsteps, trying to count how many there were. Her teeth clenched when she realized there were at least three pairs of them. Even if they were drunkards out too late, she didn’t think they’d have good intentions, stalking a lone woman in the middle of the night.

Her hand on the grip of her shortsword, she stopped and spun around. “Whoever you are, and whatever your intentions, I’m a squad chief in the city guard. If you have any ideas in your head, now’s the time to reconsider.”

There were three, indeed, dressed in expensive finery, two male and one female. Drunk or not, she would have given a lot to have Kunod and Gethor with her now. The man in front gave a shirt, icy cold laugh. “Adorable,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a frozen grave. “Thinking it can impress us with threats of being in the city guard.”

Usually, those threats did the trick, but these three didn’t seem fazed in the least. Her breath speeding up, Roë repeated, “Whatever you’re planning, reconsider while you have the chance.”

The man in front came closer, and when the moonlight hit his eyes, the reflected colour made Roë’s breath briefly stop. The pale cold moonlight reflected on red eyes with sickly orange pupils, the eyes mirroring the light like a cat’s, except in a blood red colour.

“Whuh… what the shit are you?” Roë breathed, her fingers tightening their grip on the hilt of her shortsword.

“Never you worry, little she-elf,” the leader of the stalkers whispered in a cold voice. “Soon all pain and fear will fade.”

That removed what little doubt still remained in Roë’s mind. These creatures – because they weren’t people, not anymore, she didn’t know what they were, but they weren’t people – were intent on killing her. With a snarl, she unsheathed her shortsword, and in the same movement, swiped it across the leading creature’s face, the blade briefly sending a shock through her hand as it thudded into the thing’s features, tearing the skin and breaking the bone beneath. The creature shrieked and staggered backward, but the two figures behind him leapt at her. She briefly saw the moonlight reflect off sharp claws at the ends of their fingers.

Time slowed to a crawl, Roë’s brain going into overdrive as it always did when she fought for her life, banishing panic from her mind, cold certainty guiding her hand and pure instinct making her body move to avoid injury. The female reached her first, and Roë side-stepped out of the claws’ arc, bringing her shortsword down in the back of her attacker’s neck, breaking the vertebrae with a wet _thwock_. The remaining male came at her, but her boot shot out, catching him between the legs, briefly lifting him off his feet. The creature howled in pain, but pulled its claw back for another murderous blow. Roë was faster though, and her shortsword cut the air, the blade’s edge finding her attacker’s throat and half-decapitating him, tearing through carotid, jugular and larynx, sending a black arc of blood flying from the ruin of his throat. He clawed at his gullet, fruitlessly trying to stop the blood spurting from the tear.

The leader, incredibly, rose to his feet again, his face half-split. So fast Roë’s eyes couldn’t even follow, his body uncoiled like a spring, launching him at her and bowling her over, her sword knocked from her hands.

They came down on the flagstones, the creature’s weight knocking the wind from her. One clawed hand came down on her face, pressing it down against the stone. Kicking and thrashing, Roë rained blows on her attacker, but she only succeeded in striking his shoulders and back. Claws flashed in the moonlight as the thing’s other hand rose to deliver a terrible blow, and Roë's thrashing wouldn't be able to stop him.

But just as the claw reached its apex, a loud _zzzip_ sounded, followed by a wet _thud_ as the iron tip of a projectile burst out of the creature's chest. It sat on top of Roë, its chest pressed forward and its claws spread, shoulder blades pushed together as the muscles tightened around the projectile that had impaled it.

Then the thing fell over and was still.

Roë scrambled for her weapon, but the man coming toward her lowered his strange contraption and raised his free hand to show he meant no harm to her. “Are you alright, young lady?” he asked, running towards her.

“Uh... yeah, I think,” she said back, checking her body for injuries and finding none.

“Good, good. You faced three vampires and lived to tell of it.” As he came closer, Roë noticed he was Orsimer. Maybe it was bigoted of her, but she always found it strange to see an Orc wearing human-styled armour and using weapons more complicated than a big club.

“Vampires? Is that what they were?” She'd heard of them in legends and myths, but had always thought them to be an old wives' tale. Apparently not.

“Aye,” the Orc said, turning the leader's body over with his boot. “Damn vampires have been a real menace lately.”

These were the first vampires she'd encountered. “I can't say I've noticed.”

The Orc became somewhat irritated. “Then you haven't been paying attention.”

“Alright then.”

The Orc didn't know what to make of that reply. “Hmph. The Dawnguard is always looking for new members to combat the vampire menace. Perhaps you could bring yourself to care enough?”

“I don't think so,” Roë said. “My place is here.”

“Feh. You want to be a guardswoman all your life, be my guest.” He pointed his chin at her shortsword, emblazoned with the crest of the Solitude guard. She wasn't wearing the clothes, but that didn't mean she couldn't carry the weapon. “Anyway, there's more of them, at least six in this town. You got three, that leaves at least three more of them to find. Can't waste time chatting with you.”

A feeling of dread gripped her throat. “Wait, you said there were more?”

“Aye, but they're my concern, not y – ”

“Cack,” she swore. “Kunod and Gethor!”

Without waiting for the Orc's reply, she broke into a run, darting toward the street her two companions had staggered into. Behind her, she heard the boots of the Orc thudding into the cobblestones. “You have friends out on the street this late?” he panted.

“Yeah, two.”

“If they handle themselves as well as you do, there shouldn't – ”

“They would if they were _sober_ ,” Roë snapped at him. She was running as fast as she could, and couldn't waste her breath on pointless chatter.

Rounding the corner, she saw them. Three humanoids, wearing noble-looking, old-fashioned clothing. One large figure still stood, his war hammer out, keeping them at bay. Kunod.

Roaring, she got a new burst of energy, charging at the three vampires, her shortsword held high. But before she could reach them, they noticed her and bolted, dragging a prone figure with them. Kunod no longer had the strength to give chase, falling to his knees.

“Kunod!” she called, skidding to a halt beside him.

“I'm fine,” Kunod breathed, “just completely out of breath.” He raised his head. “Ro', they've got Gethor, go after them.”

“Cack,” Roë cursed again, her legs springing back into action, carrying her forward despite screaming muscles and burning lungs. The vampires had fled through the alleys, and in the pitch darkness, Roë tripped on something soft and fell forward, barely getting enough time to break her fall with her hands.

When she tried to get back on her feet, however, her ankle screamed in pain and gave out, sending her to one knee. She tried again to put her weight onto her twisted ankle, but again it buckled out from under her. With a scream of pain and frustration, she had to abandon her pursuit.

“What the Hell is going on h - … chief?” Two guardsmen stumbled onto the scene, holding a lantern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, go after those vampires, they've got Gethor!” she ordered.

“Uh... sergeant?” the other guardsman said hesitantly. “I don't think there's anything we can do for Gethor anymore.”

“You don't know that!” she shouted. “Go after them, damn you!”

“Chief... I don't think running after them... well...” He lowered his lantern. “... will do any more good for Gethor.”

Not understanding, she turned her head to the lantern and then realized what, or better who, she'd tripped over. In the yellow light of the lantern, she saw Gethor's face, his eyes wide open, his skin stretched over the skull, as if it had shrunk. His lower jaw hung open in a terrified grimace.

“Is that...” Kunod's out of breath voice came nearer, “... Gethor?”

“Yeah,” Roë said, defeated. She turned her eyes away. “Damn it.”

“They got him alright,” the Orc said. “Must have drained him for strength as they ran. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't help him anymore,” Kunod said, breathing hard but sounding determined. “What in Frostfire did this? He looks... sucked dry.” He sighed. “I should have protected you better, Gethor.”

“Vampires did this,” the Orc said. “If you want to help your friend, help us combat the Vampire menace.”

“Who's 'us'?” Kunod asked.

“The Dawnguard, my friend. The ancient order dedicated to wiping out the Vampires. We’re always looking for new members.”

Kunod stood looking down at Gethor’s body for a moment, then said, “Alright, sign me up.”

The Orc grinned broadly, baring his sharp teeth and two lower tusks. “Good man! What say you, blondie? Maybe seeing what these creatures do to people might change your mind? The way you handled those other three shows me you’re cut out for the job.”

“Yeah, but the guard…”

“Who cares about the guard now?” Kunod snapped. “Did they ever care about you? They even told you to your face you’d never get past squad chief because you can’t keep your opinions to yourself. And look at Gethor!”

She hated to admit it, but he was right. The guard was corrupt anyway, her own superiors working against her, telling her she had to look but she wasn’t allowed to find, and telling her straight out they’d stop her from getting promoted for as long as they lived. And seeing poor Gethor lying there, drained as if by a giant spider, she decided she couldn’t let this go unavenged. “Fine. I’m with you.”


	6. Falnas: A Chance Occurrence

**FALNAS**

**A Chance Occurrence**

**City of Riften, entrance to the Ratway**

 

Falnas looked around skittishly, making sure no one was following or observing him. If these people were going to welcome him into the Guild, he’d better make sure he didn’t appear like a blundering amateur. It was getting cold, and the moon reflected off the canal, the silvery light making it all appear even more chilly. The entrance to the Ratway was on the lowest tier of the city, where wooden jetties and walkways were built on the canal that formed a ring around the city centre. The lowest tier stank of dead fish and rotting water vegetation. How people could live in such a place was beyond him. He stomped his feet on the wooden walkway against the cold, but immediately stopped when he heard how much noise it made. Dammit, all he could do was hug himself and shiver.

“Falnas,” a familiar voice hissed behind him. In the open doorway stood Sapphire, a scowl on her face. “Stop standing there like an idiot and get in here.”

Falnas ducked into the doorway and found himself in complete darkness as Sapphire closed the door behind him. Feeling around in the dark, his hand touched a soft surface with the texture of hard leather. Instantly, a hand slapped down hard on his.

“Keep your paws to yourself!” Sapphire’s voice snapped at him. The next moment, there was a bright glow of light as a torch was lit, and Falnas found himself looking at Sapphire’s angry face. Her fault for leaving him in the darkness.

“Now quit goofing off and come on,” she ordered, leading the way through the tunnels. They weren’t high enough to stand up in, and Falnas quickly began to feel pain in his lower back. He didn’t complain and stalked after the woman.

“Tripwire,” Sapphire indicated, not stopping. Falnas stepped over it and stayed close to her. It was dark, but he certainly didn’t mind having a nice ass to look at while he crept.

“Floor plate.” One of the tiles had no moss or filth on it, the sure sign of a pressure plate. Falnas didn’t want to know what would happen if he stepped on it, but he guessed it had something to do with the small holes in the masonry on either side. She led him into a side corridor, and then another, and it was hard for Falnas to stay oriented. All these corridors looked the same with their wet masonry, illuminated only by the light of Sapphire’s torch, and their rotten sewer stench.

“Another tripwire, floor plate right after.”

Falnas stepped over the tripwire and made an extra large step to avoid the pressure plate. Sapphire pointed up. “Crystal chimes.” Small, barely visible crystals hung from a thin thread. They weren’t dangerous as such, but they made a terrible noise when brushed against, alerting anyone in the vicinity. “Step over this moss-covered part.” Falnas did so. Most likely a deadfall, probably with interesting spikes at the bottom.

Another left turn, another right, and they came to a door. “Now if you value your life,” Sapphire said to Falnas, “you’ll keep your mouth shut and speak only when spoken to.”

He didn’t much care for the arrogant tone, but he wasn’t intent on squandering his possibly only chance to let the Thieves’ Guild know who he was. Sapphire inserted a strange block-shaped key into the lock and the door creaked open.

They emerged into a large round vault, ringed by water, with four walkways leading to a round stone platform in the middle. Three people stood on the platform, one burly-looking Nord with shoulder-length hair and a row of daggers carried on a bandolier across his chest, a Breton in his forties with a shaved head and black leathers, and… oh shit, the woman with the blue dress! Oh, this was trouble. Falnas checked, and was about to bolt for the exit when Sapphire whispered to him, “Listen to what they have to say, you idiot!” She subtly pushed him in the back to get him moving.

Swallowing laboriously, Falnas shuffled to the platform, avoiding the eyes of the black-haired woman.

“This him?” The Nord said, his voice heavy with Skyrim dialect.

Sapphire merely answered, “Yes.”

It was the Breton’s turn to speak. “Mate, you may be the biggest moron I’ve ever met, but you’re not too stupid to realize who we are, roight?” He spoke in a strange dialect, probably one from the farthest reach of High Rock.

“The uh, Thieves’ Guild, correct?” Falnas said, taking care not to sound intimidated and succeeding almost perfectly.

“That’s roight, the Guild. Boy’s at least got ‘alf a brain in that ‘ead of ‘is,” the Breton said in his rough voice.

“So,” the Nord asked him. “You must be new to Skyrim? Only explanation I can think of. That, or you’re stupider than a gutted fish.”

The woman in blue still hadn’t spoken, and he hadn’t met her gaze yet.

“I don’t know about stupid,” Falnas said, sounding as confident as he dared, “but I’m a damn good thief, which is why you’ve called me here, correct?”

“’Good’ is relative,” the Nord said, making Falnas’ heart speed up. “You’ve got fast and nimble fingers, sure, but your choice of marks, well…” he chuckled. “It leaves a lot to be desired.”

Finally, the woman in blue spoke. “I hope for your sake that you haven’t the faintest idea who I am?”

“Indeed I don’t,” Falnas said.

“Show some respect for the lady, yeah?” the bald Breton commanded.

Falnas cleared his throat and repeated, “Indeed I don’t, _madam_.”

“Good,” the woman in blue said imperiously. “Not knowing who I am just saved your life. For now.”

This conversation wasn’t really going well. Falnas realized the gold the brooch was worth was the least of his worries now. The Thieves’ Guild were all about business, so they weren’t prone to simply killing off people who displeased them like those Brotherhood maniacs, but that didn’t mean they never decided someone had to be shut up for good, and they certainly didn’t mind breaking a few bones, knowing full well the guard looked the other way as long as they didn’t drop any dead bodies. And Falnas didn’t feel like being beaten to a pulp.

“Like I said, madam,” Falnas repeated, “I haven’t had the honour of learning your identity. I just arrived in Riften this morning.”

“I believe ‘im,” the shaved Breton said. “’e dun’t talk like a bloody moron, so let’s give ‘im the benefit of the doubt.” The man talked like he had a cold, as if his nose was clogged.

“Agreed,” the Nord said, making Falnas release an imperceptible breath of relief. “Let’s chalk his mistake up to ignorance rather than a death wish.” He quickly added, “If that’s alright with you, lady Maven?”

The woman was silent for a while, then said, with condescending arrogance, “Yes, I suppose we can’t punish people for being stupid.” Phew, looked like he’d dodged the arrow. “Your name?”

“Falnas, madam.”

“How quaint. My name is Maven Black-briar, and stealing from me is either very foolish, or very suicidal. Luckily for you, I’m prepared to attribute your blunder to foolishness this once. I shall leave the rest to Delvin and Brynjolf.” She threw her cloak over her shoulder and turned away. “Do not expect this kind of mercy from me again.”

The eyes of the Breton and the Nord standing in front of him were urgent. Right, he supposed he had to thank the conceited woman. “It won’t happen again, madam, and I won’t forget your mercy.” If there was one thing Falnas learned in his life, it was that honour and defiance only sent you faster to the grave, so if he had to grovel to stay alive, he would. Humiliation was better than death every time.

“You had better not.” And with that, she strode away, towards a giant of a man with a warhammer carried across his back, who’d been standing in the shadows until now. They left the cistern through a door in the side. Probably a short cut back to the city for important people.

“As you may ‘ave gathered, mate, you stole from the most big-‘eaded bitch in town.” The deference was apparently only a matter of courtesy in her presence. “That’s embarrassin’ for us, you see.”

“We don’t take kindly to freelancing in our city,” the Nord continued. “If you’re a thief in Riften, you’re either with the Guild, or you get beaten all the way to the city gate. The choice is yours, either you join the Guild, or you wake up outside of the city gates with a few broken bones and nothing but your undergarments.”

Ultimatum or not, Falnas had hoped for this question. “Are you asking me to join the Thieves’ Guild?”

“No, you pillock,” the Breton said, irritated. “We’re _tellin’_ you you’re either joinin’ the Guild or learnin’ a trade.”

Smiling broadly, Falnas said, “I’m too lazy to make an honest living, and I’m not about to let my considerable thieving skills go to waste. I’m ready for a job right now, if you’ve got one to give.”


	7. Keljarn: Take Up Arms

**Keljarn**

**Take Up Arms**

**City of Whiterun**

 

The innkeeper at the Bannered Mare, Whiterun’s seemingly only inn, hadn’t been difficult when he asked for a room in the dead of night. Some innkeepers were fussy or angry when woken up for a room booking during the night, but Keljarn never cared. It was part of the job.

The sun shone in through the cracks between the shutters, painting lines of pale yellow light on the sheets and the floor. Keljarn’s sleep had been short but refreshing, and first order of business for him was to find this Jorrvaskr place the four hunters had spoken of.

Or maybe that wasn’t really the very first thing to do. He’d look a fool if he walked in there with just a stupid woodcutter’s hatchet on his back. He’d always figured that those fancy weapons were for showmen and pretentious want-to-look-tough types, but this would probably be a good time to buy an actual weapon instead of the old hatchet with its notched head and leather-wrapped grip.

He’d passed a shop on the way to the Bannered Mare, a small smithy, from the looks of the sign outside. They’d have to be pretty stupid to hang out a sign with an anvil if it wasn’t a smithy. Or maybe an anvil shop.

A woman stood outside the shop, holding a strip of iron between a pair of tongs and inspecting it carefully. When she noticed him, she gave him a nod and said, “Welcome to Warmaiden’s. If you’re here to buy stuff, head right on in. If you want something repaired… Well, I’ve got back orders for an entire week, so it’ll take a while.”

“Nope,” Keljarn said to the tanned Imperial woman. “No repairs, I need a replacement for this old thing.” He pointed his thumb at the hatchet on his back.

“Daresay you do,” she said. “No offence. Well, my husband will help you inside.”

“Alright, thanks.”

The man tending the counter in the shop was a bear of a man, even by Nord standards. His arms were as thick as most people’s thighs. Despite his impressive physique though, he looked friendly and cheerful. “Welcome to Warmaiden’s,” he greeted in a deep and gravelly, yet somehow strangely pleasant voice. “Got blades, helmets, pretty much anything to suit your needs.” Cocking his head at the old rusty woodcutter on Keljarn’s back, he added, “And looks like you’ve already got one need right there.”

“You’ve got that right,” Keljarn admitted. “Got anything I can replace this old thing with?”

He let out a hoarse chuckle. “Adriana forges just about anything, and everything she forges is top quality. Including the axes.” He walked over to a weapon rack. All kinds of sharpened weaponry hung from the rack, including several axes. Most of Keljarn’s friends in High Rock swore by the sword, but Keljarn had tried them both, and decided nothing could replace the feel of a weighted axe head lending power to a blow. Swords were just… too damn light.

“You’ve got your basic garden-variety wood-and-iron axe right here,” the huge smith explained, slapping the head of a very plain-looking, but excellently forged axe. “It’s cheap, efficient, and does the job.”

“M-hm.”

“Full metal axe forged in one piece costs double,” he went on. “But it lasts much longer.”

“How much for one of those?”

He slapped the wood and iron axe again. “A hundred for the regular, two for the full metal.”

Keljarn kept a mental count of the gold in his pouch and the expenses he still expected. “I think I can afford a bit more.”

The bearded man’s grin widened. “What I like to hear. This thing,” he picked up an axe with a faint yellow sheen to the metal, “has a corundum-iron alloy head. Edge is keener and lasts much longer. Most iron axes dull after a bit of use, but not this. Regular’s a hundred and fifty, full metal’s three hundred.” After looking at the weapon rack more closely, he added, “But seems I don’t have any regulars in stock anymore, and Adriana’s struggling to keep up with all the demand, so there’s either a full metal available right now, or a regular in… say, a week or so?”

That didn’t matter, he had enough. “Full metal will be fine.”

“One-handed, right?”

Keljarn nodded. He preferred to have a hand free for other uses, including what few spells he knew. Still grinning, the weaponsmith took the last full metal corundum alloy axe from the rack. “Wise buy, my friend. Go see Adriana if you’d like some extras.”

“Extras?”

He shrugged, “Yeah, etchings, or a leather grip, things like that. It’s all free with the purchase except etchings. They cost extra unless it’s a simple bit of text, like initials or a name.”

Something wasn’t clear though. “Wait… your wife does the smithing? Not you?”

The man laughed. “That’s right. People’s jaws drop every time they realize. My wife’s the smith, I just sell the things. And mark my words, her weapons are almost as good as Eorlund’s, and his only have the edge because he’s working the Skyforge.”

Who, the what? “Eorlund? Skyforge?”

He chuckled again. “Adriana can explain it better than I can, and she loves to chat during work. Might as well ask her to talk your ear off about the Skyforge.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

The lady in question was nowhere near the constant yakker her husband had described her as, but she proved quite sociable, offering to wrap the axe in leather bands for a better grip and less blisters, and while she did so, she asked if he was new to Whiterun.

“Does it show?” Keljarn asked with a grin.

“Mm… yes and no,” the smith said, carefully wrapping long leather strips around the axe handle. “Everyone looks new here, in a way.”

“Your husband said I should ask you about something called the Skyforge?”

She grinned as she took a metal strip and bent it around the axe handle so it would stop the leather from coming undone at the top. “Well, I’m not _the_ best smith in Skyrim. Eorlund Gray-Mane holds that honour. He works the Skyforge over at Jorrvaskr. All I can do is do the best I can and hope I come as close to him as possible.”

Well, she was certainly gracious about not being the best. “I was told to meet some people at this Jorrvaskr place. Can you tell me where it is exactly?”

“Oh, sure, looking to join the Companions, huh?”

He shrugged. “Looking to learn more about them, at least. See if they’re worth joining.”

She took a small round metal plate and heated it. “Oh they’re a good lot. A bit too uppity, some of them, but the world would be worse off without them, that’s for sure.” She placed the glowing plate against the bottom of the axe and gave it a few gentle taps, then cooled the haft to make the iron bond together. “There you go, all done.”

“Thank you, uh… Adriana?”

She let out a clear and pleasant laugh. “Usually I prefer ‘mistress Avenicci’, but for you I’ll make the exception.”

Keljarn took the axe she held out at him and grinned. “You are most gracious. My name’s Keljarn, and it’s been a pleasure doing business with you and your husband.”

“Likewise, stay safe out there.”

He fully intended to. Strolling down the streets of Whiterun in the pale winter sun, he treated himself to a fresh handful of snowberries, sold at a market stand, and thought to himself that it was damn good to be here, in Skyrim, the country he’d always considered his true homeland, not High Rock. Two children ran past him, one girl with long blonde braids and a boy with fair hair in a bowl cut. As they ran, he heard the girl squeal, “Tag! You’re it!”

A rather skittish-looking Redguard woman, who looked like she had something to hide, pointed him to Jorrvaskr, a large mead hall at the top of a hill, at the very edge of town. He passed an old man preaching full of passion about Talos, and full of contempt for the Empire, who had “sold Skyrim to the Aldmeri Dominion”. Right, the Empire had all the trouble in the world quashing the rebellion of the so-called Stormcloaks, radical Nord nationalists who were bent on driving out the Imperials and their Altmer leash-holders. Even though Keljarn felt a true Nord, he knew it wasn’t his fight.

As he ascended the stairs, he heard the sounds of sparring: the thudding of metal on wood, the thwacking of arrows into targets, the grunts and growls of exertion and competition. All he had to do was follow his ears. Going higher up the stairs, he came to a large oval hall, made up of broad wooden beams supporting a sort of turtle shell made of heavy wooden boards. It almost looked like an inverted boat. The shield motifs carved into the walls made it clear that this was the place he needed to be.

He didn’t have to take a breath or close his eyes to compose himself. He simply pushed the door open and walked in.

A young woman with a sharp face and two stripes of red war paint on each cheek raised her head from the shield she was polishing. “Just because a door’s unlocked doesn’t mean you can just walk on in.” Her tone was nothing short of confrontational. “I don’t remember this being the church of Mara.”

She was the only person in the hall, even though there were plenty of chairs at the tables, which were set into a U-pattern for maximum enjoyment during mead binges, with in the middle the smouldering charcoal remains of what looked to be a huge fire. Keljarn was somewhat dubious as to whether or not it was a good idea to build such a needlessly oversized fire in a wooden mead hall, but he supposed the inhabitants knew best. He certainly hoped they weren’t all as unfriendly as this one, though. “I’m not here for worship,” he replied curtly.

The woman went back to polishing her shield. “Let me guess, another farm boy thinking fighting’s the same as chopping wood ‘round back?”

Keljarn knew her type. People who acted all belittling to hide their own insecurity. It was usually the new cubs in groups such as these who had the most attitude. The more experienced members were usually calmer, they didn’t feel like they constantly had to prove themselves, and these wet-ears usually did. He was far too smart to let such people get him riled up, so he simply said, “Some of your people should be expecting me. Woman called Aela, and uh... two brothers. One mer with an elfhawk haircut.” Figured that he only managed to remember the woman’s name. Ah well, he wasn’t made of stone and had never claimed to be.

At least dropping her name had some effect, because the woman with the sharp face raised her head again. “That so? So what’ll you be doing then? Fetching the mead?”

Keljarn always wondered about those people. Did they actually think this kind of thing made an impression? All it did was draw attention to their own insecurities. “I’m sure I’ll be told what my job is by people with bigger responsibilities than shield polishing.” Just because he didn’t want to be provoked, didn’t mean he couldn’t gently bump this big-mouth off of her imaginary pedestal.

The woman seemed to get the message, glaring at him and then devoting her attention to the shield again. “Aela’s out back with Farkas and Vilkas.”

He couldn’t resist adding a snide little “Thanks” before crossing the hall and opening the door on the other side. She was out back alright, the first thing his eyes fell on as he blinked against the sunlight, which reflected on the sweat matting her tanned skin, her muscles taut as she held the bowstring drawn, her eyes focused on the target and nothing else. Then she released the bowstring and the arrow found its way to the target, striking it in the third-most central ring. It was an impressive shot, to be sure. There were probably even more precise bowmen and –women in the world of archery tournaments, but Keljarn doubted if those people could also skin a boar, find their way in a dense forest, or take a few punches and have a mug of ale afterwards.

On the other side of the practice field, which was hemmed in by a wooden palisade, the two brothers he’d fought the giant with were sparring, the brother with the longer beard wielding a two-handed sword, attacking with broad swings, the other holding a one-handed blade and limiting himself to dodging his brother’s blows. Keljarn thought to himself how much nerve they must have, because the wide sweeps of the two-handed sword looked like its wielder wasn’t holding back, and one miscalculation could lead to serious injuries, even in a practice match. As he saw them in the daylight, he was surprised at how hairy these men were, even for Nords. Their forearms were covered with dark hairs and the stubble of their beards went all the way up to just below their eyes, which they’d blackened with soot. They had a certain animalistic appearance to them, and it wasn’t just their Nord blood.

A young woman sat on one of the benches ringing the sparring field, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and watching intently as the two brothers went at it, her eyes shifting as she followed every move, studied every feint and noticed every shift. For some reason, her war-paint was made up of nothing more than a thin line going down from her bottom lip over her chin. She didn’t look Nord, more Breton or Imperial. Whatever she was though, she was clearly in deep concentration.

“Huh, was wondering when you’d show up.”

Aela’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. She still stood where she had been, but her head was turned to him as she nocked another arrow.

“Yeah, figured I’d come see what this whole Companions thing is about.”

The two brothers had noticed him too, and they broke off their training to come meet him.

“Care for a round of mead?” the huntress asked him. “We’ll answer all your questions inside. Come on.”

“All this sparring is making me thirsty, so good idea,” the larger of the two brothers agreed. “Ria, get some mead for our guest, would you?”

The young woman who’d been concentrating so hard on the training promptly gave a short bow of her head and answered, “Of course, Companion.” With that, she scooted off to the hall and disappeared inside. That bitchy woman inside hadn’t been kidding about fetching the mead.

The smaller (well, less huge) brother put his hand on Keljarn’s shoulder. “Come inside, friend. You’ve done us a great service, and you’re welcome at our table.”

They didn’t need to ask him twice. When they came back inside, all the Companions took their places, which were apparently fixed, and motioned for him to take an empty chair between Aela and the woman with the sharp face and the snarky attitude. She seemed none too happy to have him at her side, but that wasn’t Keljarn’s problem. He’d just have to devote his attention to Aela then.

The woman they’d called Ria arrived with one large ceramic bottle of mead, set it on the table and immediately ran back off to get more. The larger brother immediately reached for the bottle and poured his cup full.

“Farkas,” his brother said with a weary sigh. “What kind of hospitality is that? Guests first, remember?”

Farkas chuckled sheepishly. “Right, forgot.” He held the bottle out to Keljarn. “Honoured guest?” There was no sarcasm in the addressing, unlike as was usually the case when people used an honorific these days.

Had his Breton blood been more dominant, Keljarn would have begun a series of polite refusals and insistences that they should partake first, and had the Companions been Breton, they would have countered with insistences of their own until the whole interaction consisted of nothing but apologies and after-yous and I-insists, but they were all Nords, and when a Nord offers you a drink, you don’t beat around the bush and start babbling pleasantries, you take it and drink to his health. So he held out the cup set in front of him at the table and allowed Farkas to fill it, though the man didn’t do so without spilling on the table and not caring a bit that he did.

“To your health,” Keljarn said, raising his cup and taking a swill that was sizeable enough not to look effeminate, but also not so greedy he seemed like a septimless beggar gulping down his drink because the price was right.

“So,” Aela asked him as Farkas filled her cup, spilling even more of the mead on the wooden table. “What do you know about the Companions?”

Keljarn took another drink of mead (it was of decent quality but clearly a mass-produced batch to be drunk quickly and without too much discerning) and said, “Well, I know you take on dangerous work for good coin. I know you’re a close-knit group of fighter-hunters.” And to flatter them ever so slightly, he added, “And I know people respect you, but they know not to mess with you.”

Aela smiled, looking satisfied. “That’s mostly it, I suppose.” She brought her cup to her lips and drank, not with a dignified, feminine sip, but with two greedy gulps. She wiped her mouth with her wristband. Maybe it was Keljarn’s Breton lineage, but seeing a woman drink like this was amusingly surprising.

Then again, it’s not like he had expected a company of dignified mead samplers with uplifted pinkies and pencil-thin moustaches.

Farkas filled his brother’s cup, then his own again, and then finally the one of the unpleasant sharp-faced woman, which Keljarn had to pass to him and then back to the woman.

Lastly, the cup of the focused girl was filled. She’d brought two more flasks of mead and then had taken her seat next to the unpleasant woman. From the way these people treated each other, Keljarn could make up a rough idea of the pecking order. His cup had been filled first, because he was a guest of course, but then the order hadn’t really mattered for the next three. If it had, Aela’s cup would have been filled before or after both brothers’, who were clearly around equal in standing, which meant Aela ranked more or less the same. Then had come the more junior members, first the bitchy one and then the mead-fetcher herself. It was a bit of a risk, but it’d make a good impression if he made it known he already understood the dynamics in the group, so he asked, “So isn’t it difficult to make decisions without singular leadership?”

“What makes you think we don’t have singular leadership?” the less-bearded brother asked, looking amused.

“Well,” Keljarn explained, “You wouldn’t be a disciplined and efficient companionship if you didn’t have at least a vague hierarchy. Seems to me like you three are the people with the most, and around the same, level of authority. So there must be the occasional difference in opinion, right?”

Both brothers laughed, and Aela joined in with a chuckle. From his other side, he heard the woman snort in derision.

“You seem to think we’re the only Companions,” the less huge brother pointed out. Ah, of course, he’d been making assumptions in his haste to show off his perceptive abilities. “We have a leader, but he leaves most of the day-to-day affairs to us.”

“Kodlak doesn’t get out much anymore,” his brother added.

“And he’s not a leader as such,” Aela said. “But we hold him in the highest respect and follow his guidance.”

“Ria,” one of the brothers said. “Why don’t you go check on Athis, see if he needs anything?”

Both Keljarn and the young woman sensed that she was being sent out of the hall for a reason, he saw it in her eyes, but she didn’t question the veiled order and rose. “Right away, Companion.”

“You too, Njada,” Farkas told the unpleasant woman at Keljarn’s side. “Ria may need help.”

Her reaction was considerably less deferent. With a snort, she got to her feet and said, “Yeah, right,” stomping off after Ria.

When they had both left, Aela said, “Ria and Njada are young and inexperienced, and from the way you fought that giant, we’re guessing you no longer need to learn the basics. Here’s our offer. If you agree to join the Companions, we’ll skip the whole initiation period. You’ll be able to join us to assist on missions as apprentice right away instead. When we’re confident in your abilities, you’ll be able to undertake missions alone, or even ask one of the apprentices to accompany you.”

Keljarn blinked, somewhat surprised by the offer. “But you don’t know the first thing about me?”

Farkas chuckled. “Let’s just say all three of us are really in touch with our instincts. Right Vilkas?”

“What my brother means, is that we’re good at sensing people.” And somewhat reluctantly, he added, “And that we feel this is suitable recompense for saving the life of a Companion. Or more than one.”

Aela seemed a bit less embarrassed by the matter, saying it right out. “If you hadn’t arrived, there’s no telling how that battle with the giant had turned out.”

“This is a one-time deal,” Vilkas said. “It’s... a bit unusual, that’s why we’ve sent Njada and Ria out, but if you accept, you’ll be set to the same status as Njada and Athis. And Ria, pretty soon.”

“Which means,” Farkas grunted, “We’ll be needing some new blood soon. That mead doesn’t fetch itself.”

Keljarn found the offer almost too good to be true, but there was one thing he was worried about. “Won’t they be jealous? I mean, they’ve been here for a while already...”

Vilkas shrugged, refilling his cup and leaning back in his chair. “There will be some... resentment, mostly from Njada, but it’s up to you to prove you were worth our trust, isn’t it?”

They had a point. “And your leader?”

“He knows, and he trusts us when we say your arm is strong enough. Skjor might have reservations, so he’ll probably be the first to take you out on a job when he gets back.”

He’d heard good things about the Companions. They’d struck him as dedicated and welcoming, and if they weren’t the epitome of Nordic fighting spirit and comradeship, Keljarn didn’t know what was. “I have to say, when I decided to return to Skyrim, I did it to fill... a hole in my heart, I think. Not just to come home, but to be part of something. To find purpose. And – ”

“I think he means he’s in,” Farkas interrupted, laughing boisterously.

Vilkas grinned along with him and clinked his cup against Keljarn’s. “Welcome, Companion.”

Aela said nothing, but reached for the second bottle of mead.

“I think this warrants a drink or two, Aela?” Farkas said, emptying the bottle into her cup.

“I swear,” Aela said, grinning and opening the second bottle. “When it comes to not training and pouring yourselves full of mead, any excuse is good for you two, isn’t it?”4  
  



	8. Siari: With Friends Like These...

**SIARI**

**With Friends Like These...**

**Somewhere**

  
  


It hadn’t been poison, but a sleeping draught. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, Siari realized as she woke up with a pounding headache. She was in a shack somewhere, it seemed, but where, she had no idea.

“Waking up, are we?” a mocking woman’s voice came from behind and above her. Siari whipped her head around to see a masked woman sitting on the skeleton of a wooden bunk bed, one leg hanging down over the side, her pose completely casual. There was something about the dark leathers she wore, they seemed to subtly distort the light around them. Whoever this was, this wasn’t a first-timer like Siari had been.

Siari said nothing – how could she – and the woman introduced herself.

“My name,” she said, “is Astrid. I’m certain you’ve never heard of me, but you’ve heard of the organisation I am part of.” Still sitting casually on the bunk bed, she continued, “The organisation you stole from.”

Siari frowned, nonplussed. She’d killed someone, not stolen. Maybe they had the wrong person?

“Oh, you didn’t steal anything physical,” the masked woman said with a chuckle, her eyes a cold blue above her dark leather mask. “You stole something far more precious. You see, our organisation doesn’t deal in goods as such.”

Siari still had no idea what she was on about.

“Our commodity is death,” the masked woman said. “We are contracted to assassinate a mark, and we take those matters seriously. Recently, a young boy in Windhelm contacted us through the Dark Sacrament. Great was our surprise however, when our assassin arrived at the mark’s place of residence, and found her already dead, her throat cut in an almost embarrassingly amateur fashion.”

By the Nine, Siari realized. She’d killed someone marked by this woman’s group. And there was only one assassins’ group in Skyrim that mattered. Its name was often whispered, but none had ever seen its members, except maybe those who’d been granted a brief glance before their lives were taken. Siari’s gut clenched when she realized which organisation this woman belonged to, and she quietly wished she’d been slipped a poison rather than a sleeping draught. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

“I can tell from your eyes that you’ve come to the realization of whom you’re dealing with,” the masked woman said, her voice amused. “You know the Black Hand doesn’t let a kill be taken without taking one back in return.”

All Siari could do was give the woman a fearful and not-understanding look. These people were going to kill her, and in a slow and painful way, but why hadn’t they done so already?

“Oh not you,” the woman calling herself Astrid said with a chuckle. “We didn’t bring you here to kill you, then you’d be dead already. You’ve stolen a kill from the Dark Brotherhood. A kill is due, and a kill shall be returned. Look behind you.”

Reluctantly, because she didn’t trust turning her back on the masked woman, Siari looked behind her. There were three people sitting on their knees, their hands bound, each with a bag over his or her head.

“These three,” Astrid said behind her, “have been captured to give you the opportunity to repay the kill you stole. One of the people in this room has a contract on their head. These three will tell you their story, and then you must determine who the mark is. And kill that person.”

Siari had no idea what this was about, but she decided to listen to the captives’ stories before deciding whether or not she’d play this game along.

“You, mercenary! Speak!” Astrid commanded imperiously.

“Puh… please,” the first captive whimpered. “I’ve done nothing to you… let me go!”

“I said speak, not whimper!”

The man in soldier clothes shrank under Astrid’s command, and began stammering. “I’m… I’m a mercenary. I fight when told to. I’ve… I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Ugh,” Astrid grunted. “What a snivelling coward. Then again, a mercenary like him, could have made a lot of enemies. You, housewife, speak!”

The woman in the middle immediately let loose. “You bastards! How _dare_ you abduct a hard-working homemaker! Release me now, and I promise my husband won’t come back with his associates to burn this place to the ground and put your heads on spikes!”

“Spirited,” the masked woman remarked. “But one can’t help but wonder how many other people her husband and his ‘associates’ have wronged over the years. Lastly, furball!” She clicked her tongue.

The last captive, a Khajiit by the looks of him, began with a nervous chuckle, “Ah yes, you have the honour of addressing Vasha, obtainer of goods, defiler of daughters, and taker of lives. If you tell me someone wants me dead, I can only feel flattered.”

“His kind of arrogance isn’t admirable, it’s foolish,” the masked woman on the bunk bed said. “And as you’ve heard, he’s probably made quite a few enemies with those habits of his.”

Siari heard something drop down on the hay next to her, a dagger the woman had thrown down. “Now you must decide. One of the people in this room has a contract for their elimination. All you have to do is take the dagger and draw it across the throat of the mark. Or stab it between their shoulder blades, or something similarly effective.” With a cynical chuckle, she added, “If you guess wrong, you can always guess again.”

Siari stared at the dagger.

“A kill is due, a kill must be repaid,” the woman above her said again. “Either you use your dagger, or I use mine.” The threat couldn’t be more clear.

She’d killed once, and it hadn’t been that difficult. It wouldn’t be any more difficult either. Maybe it wasn’t right to kill these people, but there was no right or wrong, Siari had learned that at a very young age. There were only smart decisions and dumb decisions. ‘Deserve’ had nothing to do with any of it, and it didn’t matter to her what these people did or did not deserve. This was kill or be killed, and she had no intention of dying.

Siari knew who really had the contract. The way the masked woman had worded her demand had made it perfectly clear. But she’d play the game as it had been requested of her.

She picked up the dagger and walked to the Khajiit, kneeling down behind him. At least the Nord and the woman had shown some emotion, whether it was fear or anger didn’t matter. But this Khajiit had remained arrogant even with a bag over his head. He clearly thought she wouldn’t have the guts.

“I can feel you’re there,” the Khajiit said. “Surely you won’t be so foolish as to – ”

She cut his throat, severing his jugular and carotid, and cutting through his larynx, instantly silencing him. Blood spurted from his opened throat, and he fell forward, kicking and spasming as his life sprayed out over the dirty old carpet in the middle of the shack. As they heard him gurgle, the other prisoners reacted, the Nord whimpering even louder in terror and shock, and the woman letting out a clear and unmistakable sigh of relief. It was these reactions that decided the order in which they would die.

Without hesitation, Siari stood up, walked to the next prisoner and kneeled behind her. When she felt Siari’s hand over her face, pulling it backward to make her throat more accessible, the woman began sobbing and begging, but Siari didn’t listen. She simply drew the blade across the housewife’s throat, opening her arteries as she’d done with the Khajiit, at whose fate the woman had let out a sigh of relief, caring only that she hadn’t been the one to die.

Siari let the woman fall forward as the pressure of her blood lessened, her skull falling onto the boards with a loud _bonk._

“By the Nine,” the Nord begged. “Please, please don’t kill me! I don’t have a contract on my head! I’m not the one you want, please, please!”

Sairi had heard enough. She rose and kneeled behind the Nord mercenary.

“Whoever you are,” the Nord kept whimpering, “please! I’ll reward you, I’ll give you anything! Please just please don’t – ”

“… kill me.” Astrid finished his sentence as Siari calmly let her blade carve its third throat. The Nord died as the others had, falling forward in a pool of his own blood.

“My, my,” the masked woman said, sounding satisfied. “Three kills, aren’t we the overachiever?”

Siari merely shrugged.

“So,” Astrid asked. “Which one had the contract?”

Oh, please. You’ve given it away from the first moment. The way you worded your demands.

Siari raised her dagger and pointed it straight at Astrid.

The masked woman laughed and said, “Not bad, kid. Not bad. Interesting that you’d still kill those three, though.”

There was nothing interesting about it. Astrid had expected her to kill at least one of them, regardless of who had the contract. It hadn’t been about making the right choice, it had been about doing as you were told, about killing even if you didn’t know why. None of those three had deserved to die, but life wasn’t about deserving. They’d had to die, and so Siari had killed them. Simple. It was comforting to do as you were told. And with the right leader, the right person to follow, doing as you were told was complete freedom.

“Well,” Astrid announced, lithely leaping down from the bunk bed, “you’ve repaid your debt, and you’re free to leave.”

Siari gave her a curt nod.

Her blue eyes frowning behind her mask, the woman said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Siari shook her head.

“Well, so much the better, I suppose.” She stood looking at Siari for a moment, then said, “Falkreath’s visible from the top of the hill outside. If you want, travel southwest starting from Falkreath until you reach a black door. It will ask you a question: ‘what is the music of life’. Tell it, ‘silence, my brother’, and it will open.”

That might be a little difficult.

“Or come with me now?” Astrid said. “I can imagine why you’d kill the evil bitch that ran the orphanage in Riften, and if I’m right, then you’ve never had a family in your life. How would you like to be part of one?”


	9. Acrus: First Lessons

**ACRUS**

**First Lessons**

**Town of Winterhold**

 

Acrus’ ass hurt like a monster from the uncomfortable carriage ride. One thing he hoped was that if this college accepted him, they’d at least teach him a way to travel with a bit more comfort.

In the old days, his tutor had told him, there had been spells that could make a man levitate or even teleport back to a place where he’d set a magical anchor, but those spells had been lost in time. His tutor had said it probably had to do with the ether not being powerful enough to support the great energies teleporting and levitating required. Acrus thought it was all wash. Those scrolls and tomes had simply been lost in time.

He made a mental note that maybe trying to develop another teleporting or levitating spell might be just the thing he needed to gain renown as a mage. Yes, reinventing those spells would be a goal worth striving for.

But first, he had to hone his skill, and this College of Winterhold seemed the place to do this. After all, if anyone in Skyrim could teach him, it would be the mages and wizards holed up in this College. If they even accepted him. Not that it was a matter of meeting the requirements or having the talent, but if the old biddy in the alchemy shop had been right, the place wasn’t taking new members.

But he was determined not to let that stop him. If he showed them he had the talent, they would let him in.

Winterhold itself looked to be a rather insignificant hamlet, he noticed as he hopped off the carriage and paid the driver. Every bone in his body hurt, but he was here at last, so no time to whine. He wouldn’t complain about his aching body, nor about the snowfall that chilled him to the bone and made it impossible to see farther than ten metres.

A young guardswoman walking her beat came towards the carriage, and Acrus hailed her in the suave and winning way he was known for. “Greetings, young lady of the guard.”

The woman was far less interesting up close as she had been from a distance, her face, mediocre of its own accord, marred by a broad and ugly scar going down from her forehead, around her eye, and down to her lip. Maybe it was a better idea for this one to wear her helmet. “Good morning,” she said, with a cheerfulness that was surprising given her rather unlovable appearance. “Here for the College, I assume?”

Even though Acrus found the young woman completely uninteresting, he remained friendly. After all, it wasn’t her fault she looked this unfortunate. “Indeed. The staff gave it away, did it?”

The guardswoman smiled, wrenching the ugly scar on her face in an even more hideous pull. “That, and the scrolls sticking out of your bag. Ah, the College,” she mused. “I would’ve stayed if I didn’t have two kids to feed all on my own.”

Two thoughts immediately jumped into Acrus’ mind: _You’ve studied at the College?_ and _Someone made kids with you?_ He didn’t voice either of them and simply said, “Yes, learning magic and supporting a family don’t go well together, do they?”

She nodded, her eyes still cheerful. “Indeed they don’t. Well, good luck. The College rejects a lot of applicants, but I’m sure you’re not just some hopeful dabbler.”

“Indeed, do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks.” And to add, he quipped, “Usually when I say that, people get really impressed.”

She smiled again, still faultlessly friendly. “I’m not so easily impressed. Well, welcome to Winterhold, and I hope you don’t mind, but I have to give you our standard line of ‘behave yourself and don’t make trouble’ now. Nothing personal, I’m sure you’re very well behaved, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t let you know we’re friendly unless you cause trouble.”

Well, this cantrip-casting housewife had a job to do, Acrus supposed. “No problem at all. I’ll be on my best behaviour.” It was most certainly a problem, being treated like a proto-criminal, but if it made the scarface feel better, he was perfectly fine with acting like he didn’t mind. “Now, where do I find the College?”

“Oh, of course. It’s over there, see the end of the street? There’s a bridge there. Can’t really see it with all the snow falling but it’s there.”

“I see. Well, I don’t see,” he joked, “but I’ll find it. Thanks.”

She nodded and said, “No problem at all. Good luck.”

“I’m sure I won’t need luck,” he boasted before turning and marching towards the end of the street the woman had pointed out. He hoped it was the last he’d see of _her_.

The wind drove the snow against his face and into his collar. Gah, at times he loved this land, but at other times he loathed it with every fibre in his body. Squinting against the snow lashing against his face, he could perceive what looked to be a bridge at the end of the street, a faint gray structure rising up.

Just a little further. A guardsman who saw him plod through the snow didn’t hide his amusement, laughing a loud, unashamed laugh at what he doubtless perceived as a silly outlander making a fool of himself in the snow. It was something Acrus simply had to endure.

After some more plodding, the snow now finding its way into his shoes, he’d reached the bridge. The guardswoman had been right about that, at least. The snow lessened somewhat as he ascended the stairs, careful of not slipping on the wet and snow-slick stone. Taking a bad step here could mean taking a very painful (not to mention embarrassing) fall.

At the top of the stairs stood a woman who looked middle aged, but the pointed ears told Acrus that trying to pin an age on her would be pointless. She had an unpleasant insectoid face, like all those Altmer women had, and her hair was tied back in two braids, a sort of childlike hairstyle that clashed with her stern and older features.

But she wore a robe, and if she wore a robe, that means she was very likely to be from the College. Possibly even one of the mentors there.

“Another hopeful?” she greeted him. “Unless you’re tragically lost?”

“I’m not lost,” he panted, winded from the exhaustion of trudging through the snow and climbing the steps. He really had to work on his physical condition. “I’m here for the College.”

“You and so many. Well, let’s see if we can allow you entry.”

“Fine. What do I do?”

“Easy,” she said with a smirk. “Make it across the bridge without getting blown off.”

The wind was suspiciously strong ahead, blowing and howling between the stones of the bridge, strong enough to blow just about anyone right off, and Acrus was pretty sure it wasn’t a natural gale. Indeed, on the Altmer woman’s face was, barely perceptibly, a look of intense concentration.

Still, easy. This was clearly a test to see if he knew one of the most basic spells in any hedge wizard’s repertoire. Anyone who didn’t would probably get blown right off the bridge, splashing in the ice cold river below for a harmless but shameful and freezing rejection.

Not Acrus though. Responding in kind to the Altmer woman’s smirk, his mind plucked the necessary strands of energy out of the air and wove them into a Steadfast spell, the typical cantrip beginning mages used to keep from falling down rickety steps when stacking books, or being knocked over by a pig they were trying to catch for dinner.

As he felt his shoes take a firm grip on the stone below, Acrus effortlessly crossed the bridge, the wind having as much effect on him as it would have on a block of solid granite.

The wind promptly died down as he reached the other side, and the Altmer had been right behind him. “Well. Seems like the Inn will not have anyone’s clothes to dry tonight. Welcome to the College of Winterhold.”

He figured a display of humility was in order. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to learning more about magick.”

“Well, let’s not be premature. You’re not accepted as a student yet. You’ve only earned the right to enter the College. But,” she added, “the ease you cast Steadfast with, and the confidence you had crossing the bridge makes me rather convinced that you’re very likely to be a promising candidate.”

“Well, let’s hope so.” Of course he was a promising candidate.

“You can head on through. I suggest you speak to Master Wizard Ervine as soon as you can. She expressly wants all prospective candidates to see her first.”

“Very well.”

“At the risk of again being premature,” the Elf said, showing a grimace that was supposed to look like a smile, “You’ll be seeing me again during the lectures on Destruction. I am Faralda, the Senior Wizard teaching the Destruction course.”

Oh, damn, this was one of the lecturers. Better make a good impression then. “Honoured to meet you, Senior Wizard. My name is Acrus Vadosus, and nothing would please me more than to take in every word of your lectures.”

The Altmer immediately frowned. Agh, that hadn’t been a good move. “I liked you better when you were cocky and presumptuous instead of a pandering sycophant.”

Dang, it almost always worked, but you couldn’t win them all. It was time for some false humility. “I apologize, I tried to show respect, but I’m better with magic than I am with words, it seems.”

“Yes, well, my advice to you, don’t pretend to be something you’re not. You’re dealing with mages, after all. What is concealed to most people is very transparent to us.”

This wasn’t the time to try and challenge the judgments of these people. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now, I thought you were keen on entering the College?”

“I am.” And to make sure she knew he’d listened to what she’d said, he added a casual, “See you.”

That only got him a weary sigh. No pleasing some people.

He went on, ascending the second set of stairs, this one higher than the one before, and finding himself in front of a small tower that served as the entrance to the College, it would seem. As he passed beneath it, he noticed the sharp ends of a portcullis sticking out of the ceiling. Seemed the mages here didn’t simply rely on spells to defend the place.

The structure ahead of him was built in the same style as the small tower, but it was far bigger. Nowhere near as big as the Arcane University in Cyrodiil, but still the size of a modest keep. He found himself in the courtyard, a large paved circle with an arcane font in the middle, where mages could draw energy to practice their spells. The font was dead in the centre of the courtyard, a narrow dark blue spike of light rising up from the ground. He knew better than to touch it, even though it looked inviting enough. You were supposed to draw from the energies with your mind, and directly coming into contact with a font could lead to serious burns, electrocution or even death depending on the nature of the source.

There weren’t many people in the courtyard. One woman stood looking at the font, deep in thought, and two others, men, were at the edge of the courtyard, talking to each other. Acrus supposed he best ask someone where to find this Master Wizard called Ervine. Ervine seemed like a male name, so it probably wouldn’t be the woman at the font. Good, then he could ask her without suffering the embarrassment of asking the person in question where he could be found.

He stepped up to the font, the energies brushing past his skin like tiny threads, and cleared his throat.

The woman at the font promptly turned. “Yes?” She was also middle-aged looking, with graying brown hair parted to one side. She wasn’t exactly pretty and had a stern frown on her face, even more amplified by her slightly jutting chin.

Were there no good-looking ladies in this College?

Still he didn’t know who he was dealing with, so best to stay polite and respectful. “Greetings. I was directed to find Master Wizard Ervine. Do you know where he is?”

The woman let out a chuckle, but didn’t sound amused. “Another one. Why does everyone assume a Master Wizard is automatically male?”

What kind of halfwit question was that? “Well... the name, I suppose,” Acrus said, trying to stay diplomatic. “Ervine is a male name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the woman said flatly. “Unless it’s someone’s last name.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, were you sent to find Master Wizard Ervine by Faralda?”

“I... yes, I was, as it happens,” Acrus said, not sure if it was better to tell the truth or lie.

“Thought so,” the woman said. “I told her a thousand times already to refer to me by both _name_ and _surname_.” Wait, what? “But of course those confounded Altmer don’t understand the concept of name and surname.”

“I’m not sure...?”

“Yes, forgive me,” she said, looking at least a bit friendlier. “You must be confused. I am Master Wizard Ervine. _Mirabelle_ Irvine.”

Oh great. Seemed like the embarrassment of asking the wrong person wouldn’t be spared him. Still, the Altmer had given him advice, advice he would take to heart. “Ah, well, not like I had any way of knowing, was there?”

“Indeed,” she said sourly. “So, you are a new candidate, are you?” She sounded as if she found the very notion ridiculous, but Acrus imagined she did so to all the new candidates, to make sure they were motivated enough not to be fazed by her dismissive attitude.

“I am,” he replied confidently. “Made it across the bridge without any difficulty. If there are more tests, I’d be happy to undergo them?”

“Yes, tests,” the woman said, holding a pensive finger to her chin. “Tolfdir?”

The man she’d called out to, an old Nord dressed in frayed robes, turned away from the conversation he was having with the other man and asked, ”Yes, Master Wizard?”

“This young man seems confident he’ll be able to take our tests and not be found wanting.” She sounded much less convinced than he felt.

“Ah, I see.” The man said, in a pleasantly surprised tone. Then before Acrus realized what happened, he pulled his hands to his chest and threw them forward, a fiery ball of energy flashing towards Acrus. Instinctively, Arcus snatched threads of protective energy from the air and twisted them around each other, forming a ward. But as he made the threads spin and coalesce into the ward, the flaming ball struck him square in the chest, knocking the wind from him and lifting him off his feet. He came down hard on his back and skidded backwards a few more metres before coming to a stop.

When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by the amused face of the Master Wizard. Great. No better way to make an impression than from down on the ground.

“Now what in Akatosh’ name are you doing down there, young one?” the woman asked, her tone nothing short of mocking.

“Well,” Acrus tried to defend himself, clumsily scampering to his feet. The fireball had had mostly displacing force and not much heat. Still, the front of his tunic was warm to the touch and his chest felt like it had been struck by a giant’s fist. “It was hardly fair. It’s not like I was ready for that fireball or anything.”

“Ahh,” the old man said, amused. “So you can only defend yourself against the things you’re warned of?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Acrus snapped, nervous that he’d failed the test and his application for the College would be, in a manner of speaking, torn to shreds before his eyes. “I can hardly be expected to be prepared for a sudden fireball when I’m in the College, can I?”

“And here, lesson one,” the Master Wizard said imperiously. “You never have an excuse for not being prepared.”

The old man weighed in, “Magic is powerful, but power won’t save you if you’re not in time to bring it to bear. You might think that as a mage, you’ll never have to fear the common folk, but you must never underestimate how quickly an arrow is fired or an axe is swung. No amount of magic can save you if you’re not always on your guard.”

Acrus angrily slapped the snow off his breeches. “So I have to be careful of everyone while I’m here?”

“While you’re here?” the old Nord echoed. “No. In here, the worst that can happen is that you take an embarrassing trip to the floor.” Gravely, he said, “Out there. That is where you have to be careful.”

“A mage’s power,” the woman took over, “is respected and looked up to, but it is also feared and envied.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter does it?” Acrus grunted. “I failed your test.”

At this, both mages laughed.

“We can teach you to be prepared, child,” the old man laughed. “We can teach you many things. What we can’t teach you, however, is raw talent, which you already demonstrated you have, and the ability to think on your feet.”

“Which I’ve shown I don’t have?” Acrus said, upset at how the two made light of his failed test. How could they stand there laughing about something which meant so much for him?

“On the contrary,” the Breton woman said gently. “Every single one of our candidates makes a trip to the ground the first time.”

“But,” the old man said, “All of them went down without even getting their ward spell off.” He pointed at the place Acrus had stood when the fireball had struck him. “All of them except you.”

Making a soft sibilant sound and gently flickering, and visibly flimsy due to the incomplete casting, the ward barely but surely kept itself in the air.


	10. Roë: Dawnguard

**ROË**

**Dawnguard**

**Near Dayspring Cave**

  
  


It had stopped snowing a few days ago, and thaw had come last morning. Now the mountain path they were following offered them a lovely vista of different greys and greens, the mosses enduring through winter and the nightshade and deathbell growing their first buds. They were hardy plants, and they could survive several weeks under the snow. Which was of course the reason they were found in abundance in this province and nowhere else. The juniper bushes had berries early, and they stopped for a mouthful whenever the chance presented itself. They were still bitter, but pleasantly so, and the juice trickling down one’s throat after a long walk was a moment of bliss.

“Not far now,” Durak said, leading the way. The Orc had turned out to be surprisingly intelligent and conversational, telling them about the Dawnguard and this and that, and of course about the Vampires. What they were like, where they holed up, and of course what their vulnerabilities were. The contraption he’d been carrying turned out to be a crossbow, shooting heavy bolts at a tremendous speed, good for penetrating the Vampires’ hearts, which destroyed them instantly if the shot was true, unlike other injuries which often merely slowed them down, where a normal human would be instantly killed. The Vampire leader, who still came at her even when her face had been hacked in two, had been a good example. Beheading was also efficient, as was incineration. Fledgling Vampires were more vulnerable though, only a little more resilient than humans, which was why the other two Vampires _had_ gone down from the first blow.

This and other bits of wisdom Durak had imparted as they went southeast, past Whiterun and then to the Hall of the Vigilants, Stendarr’s followers who had been one of the Vampires’ prime targets. They’d been mostly concentrating on battling Daedra, so they’d been ill-prepared for the attacks of the Vampires, creatures with other tactics and other weaknesses than the usually straightforward forces of Oblivion. Well, the lower ranks were straightforward at least.

Past the Hall of the Vigilants they’d gone, descending the mountain and now heading for a valley. Kunod had been mostly silent, as he always had been, asking the occasional question but keeping to himself and his own thoughts most of the time. The day before, as they’d made camp and got into their sleeping bags, Kunod had dragged his bedroll over to hers and before closing his eyes, put his arm around her without asking. She’d let him, thinking that the man was probably still trying to deal with Gethor’s death and that some human warmth could maybe help him with that, but now she wished she hadn’t. It might have put ideas in Kunod’s head that would only hurt him in the long run. She’d come with him and Durak to avenge Gethor and stop the Vampires from killing more innocents, not to be closer to him – at least, not as more than a comrade and a friend.

“It’s hard to spot,” Durak said, squinting against the morning sun, “but there it is, down there.”

Kunod peered at the place Durak had pointed out but could only say, “I don’t see anything?”

“No, it’s well hidden, you almost can’t find it unless you’re standing in front of it. It’s got a ward too, that makes scrying spells and devices go wild, and compasses point in the wrong direction. Anyone trying to find that cave without my guidance would probably be in for a hair-pulling journey of frustration.” He chuckled.

“Feeling a little better, Ro’?” Kunod asked.

“I’ll be fine.” She’d been running a bit of a fever, probably from being caught in a spell of rain the day before yesterday. It was nothing more than a cough and a runny nose, so no big deal, except for the burning throat and hot forehead. Durak had taken a look at her and said she didn’t have to worry. It wasn’t sanguinare vampiris, the disease responsible for causing vampirism, since that was transmitted by blood, and there were no bite or claw marks on her. Plus, the diseases typically came with nightmares and feelings of anxiety or dread. Roë didn’t have nightmares and she wasn’t the type to feel anxious and dreadful either. She could probably find herself a potion at Fort Dawnguard when they reached it anyway, so no point complaining.

“If there’s anything you need, just ask, alright?” Kunod said.

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” she repeated with a smile. It was good of him to be thoughtful, but ultimately futile.

“Girl’s just runnin’ a little fever,” Durak laughed. “I’ve been through much worse on a long slog, and I’m sure you two have been as well.”

“Exactly,” Roë said gently.

“Yeah, you’re right, I suppose.” Kunod sighed. “I’m still blaming myself for Gethor, which is why I might get a little overprotective at times, I guess.”

Roë didn’t think that was the reason, at least not mainly, but she smiled anyway and said, “It’s alright. It’s good that we’re looking out for each other. And Gethor’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“There’s no point feeling guilty. What’s done is done,” Durak said, walking in front of them and craning his head towards them. “And you shouldn’t let those things scare you into being overprotective. All you can do now is learn from it and look to the future.”

“Speaking of futures,” Roë said. “How long ‘til we reach the Fort?”

Durak stopped and smiled at her, baring his tusked underbite. “Not long now.” Extending his hand at the rock wall, he said, “After you.”

“But… there’s nothing there,” Kunod stammered, not understanding.

Durak’s smile broadened. “Stand over here.”

Kunod did so and his eyes widened. “By the Underking, that’s well-hidden!”

Maybe for a Nord, but Roë’s keen Bosmer eyes had spotted the entrance the second Durak had pointed at it. She and Durak exchanged a brief, knowing smile, and then they entered the cave, first descending and then rising again, going under the mountain.

The walk through the cave took an hour or so, and they had to blink against the pale midday sun. As their eyes adjusted, they saw a roughly hewn staircase leading up, and against the wall of the mountain opposite the one they’d gone under, was a large fortress made of grey stone, almost as tall as the tower of Solitude, and looking like it could resist any attack. Roë, however, knew enough about covert warfare to be aware that one traitor within the walls was more dangerous than an army outside the gates.

“Let’s head to the Fort straight away, let Isran take a look at you. Then we can get some ale and some rest.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kunod said.

“Hmm,” Durak muttered as they went up the stairs. “Haven’t seen that guy before.”

A young Nord stood at the top of the stairs, his back to them and his hands in his sides, looking up at the fortress.

“Hey there, boy!” Durak called. The Nord jumped almost two metres into the air and turned. “I- y… yes sir?”

“What’s your business here?” Durak asked dourly.

“I’m uh…” He suddenly realized where he was and how he should act, and straightened up, saying, “I’m looking to join the Dawnguard, sir.”

“I’m not a sir,” Durak grunted. “This isn’t the army. What’s your name?”

“Agmaer, s…” He checked. “Agmaer.”

“I’m Durak, these two behind me are also potential new recruits.” Quietly, he added, “though not as wet behind the ears as you are.” Then, louder, he continued, “Come with us, I’ll take you three to Isran together.”

“Oh, would you?” the Nord asked giddily. “Thanks, I wasn’t really sure how to go about it.”

“Really?” Durak said quietly, to his two companions, “I couldn’t tell.”

Agmaer, despite his rather childlike insecurity and enthusiasm, was a rather pleasant fellow. Perhaps a bit too pleasant for the Dawnguard. Roë didn’t figure an order of Vampire hunters had much use for a naïve young farm boy whose only blood he’d seen had been that of the pigs his father slaughtered. Still, you could never tell what wood someone was cut out of until they were confronted with danger. Roë, and she knew Kunod too, had learned this from her time at the guard. They’d both seen small, stammering little guys take on thugs twice their size without blinking, and huge, powerful tough-talkers freeze up and even run when the shit hit the windmill. Still, the boy obviously had much to learn.

They passed under an arch that led to a side tower of the fort, and then past a courtyard that had target dummies set in it, where a man was practicing with his crossbow. Durak briefly hailed him, calling “Cerann!” and the crossbowman raised a hand in greeting in return.

“Now then,” Durak said, “time to go see Isran. I’ll be having an ale in the sun, it’s best if you introduce yourselves rather than let me do it for you.”

They stood in front of a large gate, the main entrance to Fort Dawnguard.

“Go on,” Durak shooed them. “He won’t bite your heads off.”

Kunod nodded and pushed the double doors open, and they walked into the main hall, Roë and Kunod next to each other, Agmaer following a few paces behind.

The main hall was round, almost completely empty apart from a few crates and some benches, and looked to be in serious disrepair. The corners were cobwebbed and dirt ground beneath their boots as they walked. In the middle, lit by the few torches there were, stood two men. One, a large Redguard-looking man with a shaved head, a long beard, and powerful features, wore the same armour Durak did, though the front had several belts strapped over it, the other wore a robe over generic-looking but ornate steel armour. His head was also hairless, but in this case, it didn’t look shaved but simply fallen out. He’d apparently tried to compensate for it with sideburns though, because his were impressive.

“They’re all dead, Isran!” the man with the sideburns said, making it immediately clear which one Isran was. “Every single one of them. Even Carcette. Dead.”

“And, Tolan?” the other asked aloofly. “You were capable of handling the Vampire threat, were you not? You laughed in my face when I came to you and told you the Dawnguard needed to be resurrected.”

“Yes, Isran,” the man in the robe admitted. “You were right, we were wrong. What more do you want me to say?”

Isran raised his hand to silence the other man. “Hold on. We’ll discuss this later. Just who are you?”

Before Roë could answer, Kunod stepped forward and struck his heart with his fist. “Kunod of the Solitude guard, here to join the Dawnguard.”

The man grinned through his beard. “Good, good. We can always use more men who actually realize the Vampires are more than just a nuisance.” The stab at Tolan was unmistakable, and the man visibly shrunk under the barb. “And you?” he said to Roë.

Roë stepped forward, but didn’t feel the need to imitate the dramatic gesture. “Roë, also Solitude guard.”

“Really. We don’t have any Bosmer in the Dawnguard yet. Well, now we do.” He paused for a moment, then cocked his head. “Are you ill?”

“Just a little fever.”

“Yes, your brow and cheeks are flaring red.” His frown deepened. “Not sanguinare, is it?”

“No. Durak asked already, I wasn’t bitten or clawed. I’ll be fine.”

“You both look like you can handle yourselves,” the Redguard said, extending his calloused hand. “Welcome to the Dawnguard.” When Kunod and Roë shook it, he noticed Agmaer hanging back in the shadows. “Step into the light, boy, let me take a look at you.”

Timidly, Agmaer did so. Roë hoped the kid didn’t regret his decision already. And if he did, that he’d at least have the courage to admit it.

“What’s your name?”

“Agmaer, sir.”

He got the exact same reaction he’d had from Durak. “I am not a sir and you’re not in the army. Can you handle a weapon?”

“I uh… I’ve swung the odd axe.”

Suspicious, Isran crossed his arms and looked at him closely. “Swung the odd axe? What, at the farm?”

Agmaer had inhaled to reply, but then his breath stopped. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking embarrassed. “At the farm. My pa’s axe.”

Isran threw his head back and laughed. “At the farm!” Another laugh. “His pa’s axe! Oh dear, Stendarr preserve us! Don’t worry, boy, we can make a fighter out of you yet.” He took the crossbow hanging at his hip. “Take this, go outside and tell Durak to teach you the basics.”

Gingerly, Agmaer took the weapon.

“Stop cowering, boy!” Isran snapped, the boy flinching at his voice. Oh brother, this one needed to start from the ground up. “Go see Durak, tell him I know he’s drinking ale and that he’d better spend his time on more useful things, such as training beginners like you.”

“Y… yes, sir.”

“I am not a sir! And this is not the army!” Isran barked at him. “Now go!”

Agmaer slunk away, visibly intimidated.

When he was gone, Isran gave Kunod and Roë a grin and said, “You need to be tough on ‘em to make them tough.” He chuckled. “’My pa’s axe’. Priceless.”

“What my captain always used to say too,” Kunod said, grinning back. “And we turned out tough enough.”

“You certainly look it. Son, I have an important job for you, if you’re willing?”

Kunod quickly glanced at Roë and said, “Uh… certainly.”

“There’ll be a squad of men leaving tomorrow at dawn to eradicate a Vampire lair. Want to be part of it?”

Almost beaming, Kunod said, “Yes, yes I would. If you think I’m worthy.”

Isran shrugged. “You come back alive, you’re worthy. Head back out and speak to Cerann, he’ll tell you what to do.”

“Alright.”

“Isran!” the man in robes interrupted impatiently. “What about the Vigilants?”

“What about them. They’re dead.”

“ _I know_ , Isran. But before they died, they were investigating a place the Vampires were poking around in. Dimhollow Crypt.”

“And? They were probably looking for bats to talk to or something.” Somehow, Roë didn’t think it was something that simple. Usually, when your enemies were looking for something, it paid to find out what it was and get to it before they did.

“This is _serious_ ,” Tolan insisted. “My gut tells me there’s something important there.”

Isran waved his words away. “Yes, yes. If it makes you feel better, I’ll send someone on this wild goose chase.” His eyes fell on Roë. “You. Are you fit to travel?”

“I said it was just a fever,” Roë said back. If he wasn’t a sir and they weren’t in the army, then she had the liberty to tell him she didn’t like repeating herself.

“I can’t spare anyone to send on that little treasure hunt. Feel like checking it out?”

Roë had had the feeling it might be important, despite Isran’s dismissive attitude, so she said, “Sure. I’ll go. Where’s Dimhollow Crypt?”

“Good woman,” Isran said. She got some vague directions to a place called Volunruud, a dwemer ruin which should be visible from far away, and then she had to go North until she found a cave mouth.

Not exactly the most specific route description, but she figured she could find it herself. “Alright, I’ll go see what’s there.”

“You would?” Tolan asked, relieved. “Wonderful! I’ll meet you there. If there are vampires, I’ll have a score to settle with them in the name of my fellow Vigilants.”

“Uh… okay.”

“Tolan might have made some mistakes in his life, but he’s no pushover,” Isran told her. “Stay close to him and learn from him what you can.”

Tolan didn’t react to the compliment and turned on his heels and walked away. “Take a day to rest, child, no rush in leaving. I have cremations to take care of.”


	11. Falnas: Taking Care of Business

**FALNAS**

**Taking Care of Business**

**City of Riften, the Bee and Barb**

 

The first job he’d gotten was insignificant enough. Three deadbeats in Riften needed to be given a helpful reminder concerning their attitude on debts, specifically, those they owed the Thieves’ Guild. They considered it better if they didn’t pay, the Guild considered it better if they did. So someone needed to go slap some sense into them. No killing, of course, and not too much physical violence. Just a little friendly reminder. The Guild didn’t really much care about the debt, Brynjolf had said, more important was the Message. You didn’t just ignore the Thieves’ Guild.

Falnas harboured no illusions. It was a prove-your-worth job if ever there was one. Still, if that’s the type of job he needed to complete every once in a while, fine. There’d be more important, and lucrative jobs on the other end.

Haelga, Bersi Honey-Hand and Keerava. Those were their names. He knew who Keerava was, well, he’d ordered quite a few drinks at her bar. Talen-Jei, the Argonian he’d consumed those drinks with once in a while, was rather enamored with her.

Being a Thieves’ Guild operative wasn’t just stealing, Brynjolf had told him. Some problems can be solved without breaking into people’s homes or stealing from them – though opportunism was always encouraged – and just talking to the right people the right way could be much more effective than robbing them blind. “Be creative,” Brynjolf had said. “Just no killing, no major destruction of property. Common sense, really.”

So he was here to lean on Talen-Jei a bit. He was in the Guild now, and you couldn’t be soft just because you were old drinking buddies. Killing was not permitted, but that didn’t mean threatening wasn’t.

“So how’s things with Keerava?” Falnas asked matter-of-factly, nursing his weak ale. He’d paid for Talen-Jei’s Argonian brandy – strong alcohol to tip the scales a bit more.

“Oh she bides fine,” the Argonian replied, somewhat uncertainly. “She’s right there at the bar. Why are you asking me?”

“Still want to marry her?” Falnas didn’t want to imagine how these creatures married or reproduced.

“Yes... I do. Why?”

“Oh,” Falnas said, his tone as casual as possible. “Just heard she’d been having some problems... monetary ones, I mean.”

Talen-Jei gave a nervous chuckle, his scaled nostrils twitching. “I... shouldn’t discuss such things with others.”

Time to make the conversation a bit more serious. “Oh, I heard she was in debt. Nothing tremendous, but still, unpaid debts... might bring some dangerous people to come and collect them.”

“I’m... sure it’s nothing she can’t handle,” Talen-Jei said nervously.

“Come on. I know you’re crazy about her. Maybe I can help? Would be a shame to see her get hurt over a small debt.”

“She doesn’t accept any help,” the lizard suddenly said, letting go of his suspicion. “I even told her to ask her family in Morrowind to help.”

This could be interesting. It didn’t matter where the money came from, as long as it was paid. “Why doesn’t she?”

He made a throw-away gesture, then took his drink and finished it. “She’s extremely protective of her family. When I made the suggestion, she instantly went all anxious, as if her family would be in danger just from _knowing_ about her debt.”

_Hel_ -lo? This was _very_ interesting. “I see,” Falnas said, rising from his chair. “That’s unfortunate. I hope things work out for her. I have to go.”

“Alright,” Talen-Jei said, oblivious to Falnas’ plan. “Safe travels.”

He always said ‘safe travels’, even if he knew the other person wasn’t going anywhere. Falnas had no idea why, and he didn't care either. He’d be back for Keerava, but not right now. It’d be too conspicuous, and with Talen-Jei being loose-lipped as he was, he might be good for some more information further down the road, and he’d ruin that source if he made it too obvious where he got this useful tidbit from. He’d return later, in disguise.

It was still early, and he still had some time to spare before Keerava’s shift was over and he could pounce on her on the way home. Next, Bersi Honey-Hand. Owner of the Pawned Prawn, a buy-and-sell store in town. The very name of the establishment made Falnas’ stomach turn. No surprise that he was a Nord. Only they and the Orcs could think of a name like “Pawned Prawn” and actually consider it clever. As he crossed the bridge over the canal, enjoying the pale winter sun, he saw a familiar scene. The blonde man-bitch was giving Maven Black-Briar a piece of her mind again. This could be worth listening in on, so Falnas casually walked closer, pretending to be watching the lone white cloud in the sky.

“I assume you don’t know what this is about either?” the blonde threatened.

“Honestly, Mjoll, your accusations were quaint at first, but they begin to tire me. Don’t you have more interesting things to do than repeating the same piece of theatre over and over again?”

“Better things to do than trying to expose the person behind all the murders here in town? No, Maven. I have nothing better to do. Of course, you have no idea why someone would murder old Grelod in her sleep, do you?”

Falnas heard Maven laugh, even more confidently than usual. That laugh, and the arrogant notes in it, told him more than the Nord woman’s dull senses could possibly hope to pick up. Maven Black-Briar had nothing to do with this particular murder.

“Really, Mjoll. Why would I _ever_ try to have the old biddy who runs the orphanage murdered? Unless you think I use it as a front for a moon sugar ring, or that I have illegal cockfights in the cellar?”

Falnas had heard of Grelod. Some old bint who ran the orphanage. She was dubbed Grelod ‘The Kind’ by the people in Riften, but the byname had been given with more than a small helping of sarcasm, since the old crone was a tyrant to the children. It wasn’t unheard of for a child to break a bone or two after Grelod had thrown him or her off the stairs, and every child bore bruises under his or her clothes. There were even darker rumours, of Grelod ‘renting’ the children out to local creepers for purposes Falnas would rather not think about, but those rumours were just that.

“You know as well as I do that Grelod was nowhere near as kind as her epithet suggested.” Falnas was surprised the battleaxe actually knew the word.

“Exactly,” Maven said. Falnas could actually _hear_ her smirk. “Grelod must have made many enemies in her lifetime. Maybe she just forgot that abused children grow up and become vengeful adults?”

“And those other people? The brewers? Also murdered by vengeful adults?”

“Now, Mjoll, you know full well that I didn’t claim they were. As for who _did_ murder them, well, it’s still a mystery so far, yes?”

“Not to me, Maven.” The Nord bullbitch took on a threatening tone, lowering the volume of her voice. “I _will_ get you, Maven. Sooner or later you’ll slip up, and then I’ll see you rot in the dungeon.”

“Perhaps,” Maven defied. “But not today. Now, unless there’s something else, I suggest you leave me be.”

“I will. For now.”

Falnas heard the Nord stomp away with no subtlety whatsoever.

“And you. Your attempt to inconspicuously eavesdrop is pitiful.”

Damnit! This was awkward. Still, he was caught now, so he better not upset this woman if he wanted to spend more than one day as a Thieves’ Guild member. So he put on another little show. “Forgive me, lady. I rashly assumed you might want an ally close to you in case she got violent. And in case you needed someone to testify that she threatened you.”

The woman chuckled. “Nice try, ashenface. It’s insulting that you lie, but I must admit you came up with a very good one.”

Better not disagree with her. “Curiosity is an essential quality for a thief, my lady. And I fear it sometimes makes us stick our noses where it doesn’t belong. It will not happen again.”

“You’re right about that,” the middle-aged woman said quietly, a hateful look at the Nord’s back as she walked away. “It certainly will not happen again.”

Falnas knew his presence was no longer required, so he just made a short bow and made himself scarce.

Right, the Pawned Prawn. With all the tension, Falnas had almost forgotten. He made his way to the pawn shop, unimpressed by its mediocrity when he arrived.

“Bersi!” Falnas exclaimed, greeting him as if he was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. “How are you, my man?”

“I’m sorry?” the balding Nord said, blinking. “I’m uh... not too bad, thank you. And uh, you?”

“Not too bad, huh?” Falnas asked, still keeping the winning smile on his face. “Then you surely have the one hundred gold pieces I’ve come here to collect?”

He blinked again, scratching his brown beard. What he didn’t have on his head, he had on his chin. Nords and their damn beards. “I... have no idea what you’re... what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Falnas faked surprise. “Then... maybe I’m mistaken. You _are_ Bersi Honey-hand, are you not?”

“Yes, but – ”

“And this _is_ your shop, the Prawned Pawn, is it not?”

“Pawned Pr – ”

“And you _are_ selling items like this hand mirror here, are you not?”

“Well, yes but – ”

Abruptly, Falnas let the mirror fall to the ground, watching as it hit the stone floor and flew apart into shards of glass.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

Falnas picked up a finely painted porcelain cup. “This.” The cup, too, fell to the ground and broke into bits.

“You can’t just come in here and – ”

“Can’t I, by the Nine?” Falnas asked, still taking care to sound amicable and friendly. “I’m just making sure that I have the right person in front of me.”

“Yes I’m Bersi Honey-Hand, now stop breaking my stuff! You’re paying for all that!”

“Now see, that’s where we differ,” Falnas said. “Every item I break here is interest. Interest on what you still owe the Guild.”

“You’re w... you’re with the Guild?” the man breathed. “Look, this is a misunderstanding!”

That was exactly the thing he _shouldn’t_ have said. “Misunderstanding?” Falnas exclaimed. “Oh my, we don’t want that! We should provide some more clarity then!”

Before the man could shout “No!”, Falnas had already put his finger against a vase, slowly pushing it until it toppled and shattered on the floor.

“Stop it!” Bersi shouted, his hands balled into fists. “You’re destroying my shop! You’ve already caused more than a hundred septims worth of damage!”

“Like I said,” Falnas said casually. “Interest, my dear. Still convinced it’s a misunderstanding?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” the man yelled. “You’ve already taken more than a hundred from me!”

“I haven’t taken anything. As it is now, we’re both still losing money. Pay up so at least one of us doesn’t get a bum deal.”

“After what you did? I don’t think so.” He was trying to be defiant, but he was only cutting into his own flesh.

“No problem,” Falnas said casually. “I can do this all day long.” He added deed to word and snapped the wooden dancer carving off a music box.

“I’ll... I’ll call the guard!”

“Go ahead. They can’t unbreak your stuff. I’ll be gone by the time they get here and I’ll just be back another day. Or maybe another night? Who knows?” His eye fell on a gilded dwemer urn. “Oh this looks like a prize. Would be unfortunate if someone were to let it slip from his fingers.”

“No! Stop!” Falnas paused, the urn in his hand. “... I’ll pay.”

Falnas flashed another friendly smile. “Music to my ears, Bersi. See? You _can_ be reasonable.”

Glaring, the Nord filled a purse with septims and threw it at Falnas, who deftly caught it. “Thanks, Bersi. Pleasure doing business!”

“Just... put my urn down and go.”

“Gladly,” Falnas indulged him. But before he left, he stopped and turned around. “Oh, by the way? Someone should sweep this place, it’s not very good for business to have a cluttered floor.”

Falnas felt good about himself when he left. Enforcing a protection racket was trash tier work, but if he did it right, he’d be getting better jobs soon, so this was worth excelling in. One down, two to go, and he was halfway on the second. Still some time before Keerava’s shift was done, but not enough to get started on his last ‘client’.

A drink in the cool evening air would be nice. He purchased a bottle of sujamma at one of the stands in the market square, run by a fellow Dunmer, and sat himself down by the canal. Skyrim was cold and untameable, but it could be beautiful at times like these. Birds were chirping in the evening twilight, and in the distance, Falnas could hear the metallic tings of Balimund the smith’s hammer as it hit the metal he tirelessly forged. The architecture was simple and robust, nothing like the elaborate structures or inhabited mushrooms and insect shells you found in Morrowind, but still possessing a sort of simple beauty, hidden beneath their rough stonework and simple square design.

“Hey Falnas,” a familiar voice greeted him while he drank with his eyes closed, enjoying the taste of his homeland.

“Ah, Romlyn,” Falnas said back. “How does the day find you?”

“Oh, good.” He held out his hand. Of course, the man worked for the Black-briar brewery. His body needed alcohol like Falnas’ needed air. It was obvious he liked the drink when you looked at him. His hair was stark white, and the bony ridges of his brow and cheeks clearly visible, the dark skin stretched tightly over them. Falnas wondered if he ever ate, or only drank. Then again, it wasn’t his business, and he passed Romlyn the bottle.

“So, what news?” Falnas asked as Romlyn Dreth sat down on the bench next to him.

“Oh, not much. All’s quiet in Skyrim, just the way I like it.”

“Mm. I like it when there’s a few things going on,” Falnas said. “Can’t really ply my trade when things are _too_ calm.”

Romlyn chuckled and drank from the sujamma. “Well, we all have our ideal circumstances for doing what we do.”

It wasn’t a secret between them. Falnas picked pockets and made valuable objects disappear, and Romlyn kicked back a generous sum of septims per month by diverting a daily stream of septims into his pockets at Black-briar brewery. After getting to know this Maven Black-briar prune a little better, Falnas doubted if what Romlyn was doing wouldn’t end in him floating down the canal one day. But he supposed Romlyn knew the risks. “Yes, I suppose the calm is perfect for you and your... hard work at the brewery.”

Romlyn merely grinned broadly, looking out at the square and drinking from the sujamma again.

“That’s enough, Romlyn. Come on, I paid for it, I should at least get to drink more than one sip.”

Reluctantly, the brewer gave the sujamma back. “Fine, fine.” His features suddenly lit up. “Oh, by the way, you wanted some more upheaval?”

“Of the good kind, yes.”

“This may interest you. You know Mjoll the Lioness, right?”

“The butch vigilante type? Yes, I know her. Well, _of_ her.”

“One of her friends is in Riften for a few days. You may know _of_ that one too.”

“Romlyn, I’m burning with curiosity,” Falnas said in a bored voice. “Enlighten me?”

He clearly enjoyed keeping him in ‘suspense’. “Remember that blonde we thought was her sister, a few months ago?”

Oh yes, Falnas remembered her all too well. How could he not? The damn woman had come to town, gone with Mjoll on some sort of ‘heroic quest’ to retrieve an old sword, and when she’d come back, she’d hauled a sack of dragon bones behind her and told Balimund to forge them into a suit of armour if he pleased, like it was the most normal thing in the world. There were rumours going about that one, that she was the so-called Dovahkiin, who possessed the power of the dragons. The Dragonborn of silly Nord myth.

Although Falnas had doubted his own idea of Nord myths being silly when he’d seen how the woman had reacted when a drunk challenged her to a fight in the Bee and Barb: she’d simply taken a deep breath, and without putting her ale down, shouted some power words or something in a terrifying roar of a voice, and the man had been lifted off his feet, flying all the way through the tavern to slam against the wall several metres further. His fire to prove the supposed Dragonborn a fraud was quickly extinguished, and no one had drawn her into questioning for the rest of the evening.

“Yeah, what was her name again? Something beginning with ‘arse’. We laughed about it when we heard. Damnit, what was it again?”

“Arska,” Romlyn helped him out.

“Right. Well, she’s a celebrity these days. And she’s coming to Riften?”

Romlyn nodded. “Mm. Got business with the Jarl. She’s staying at our pesky vigilante’s house.”

“You’d think you’d be more appreciative,” Falnas pointed out, “since the keeps Maven too occupied to check the brewery’s finances.”

“Just because she comes in handy doesn’t mean I have to like her,” Romlyn pointed out. “I still think she’s a hardhead, and her posturing gets on my nerves.”

“Yes, well. Be that as it may, that supposed Dragonborn visiting might be a blessing or a curse. If she riles things up a little, that’s good for my business. Of course, if she overdoes it, then that’s no good for anyone.”

“You’re probably hoping she’ll kill a dragon right outside the gates, aren’t you?”

Falnas grinned. “Oh, if only. Imagine the tourists and pilgrims. Imagine the gold in their pockets.”

“If that happens,” Romlyn said, “I’m quitting the brewery and becoming competition for you.”

Falnas briefly thought of telling him he was with the Guild now, but Romlyn had no business with that. Better to keep it a secret for now. “So hey, Romlyn. You wouldn’t happen to know Haelga, would you?”

Romlyn nodded, holding out his hand for the sujamma again. “Runs the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, Romlyn, that I know. I spent many a penniless night on those straw mattresses.”

“She always orders a bottle of Black-briar Reserve Premium, every week. To offer at the statue of one of the Nine, can’t remember which one. I was late once, and she almost had a heart attack because she wouldn’t be able to make her offering in time. Bit of an iconoclast, that one.”

“Really? That’s good to know.” A plan formed in Falnas’ mind. It was almost too easy. He rose. “Finish the rest of the bottle, it’s yours. I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Not in my house while I’m not there, I hope?”

“Don’t be silly,” Falnas said. “You know I only steal from these gullible Nords.”

Keerava’s shift was almost over. Falnas waited in the shadows, wearing the disguise he’d quickly put together, a quick and hasty combination of a black cloak and a gray cowl, with a kerchief over his face. It wasn’t the most stylish of disguises, but it’d have to do. After all, Falnas still felt like having a drink in the Bee and Barb every now and then, and people tend not to serve their extortionists.

The door of the Bee and Barb clicked closed. Keerava was on her way home. Now was the time.

Falnas popped out from behind the corner and went to stand right in front of Keerava.

“If you’re trying to mug me, scum, then I hope you’re ready to look for your balls in the canal!” Feisty, but ultimately futile.

“You’re late on your protection money, Keerava,” Falnas said, making his voice unrecognizable, and faking a Mournhold accent to put her on the wrong foot.

“Oh so you’re with the Guild, huh? Well, the offer’s the same. Beat it or your balls will be floating – ”

“Yes, yes.” He’d heard it the first time. “Pay up right now or we’re paying a visit to your family in Morrowind. Maybe they’ll pay in your place. Or maybe we’ll have to take it out of their skin.” It was callous and ruthless, but it was only meant to scare the lizard.

And scare her it did. “No, please! I’ll pay, I’ll pay, just... leave my family alone.” Her reptilian eyes were wide with terror. Falnas almost felt guilty.

“Tomorrow,” Falnas threatened. “Leave the gold at the graveyard, in the flower pot against the wall.”

“Yes, yes, alright, I promise, just... don’t hurt my family.”

“Pay and we won’t have to.” With that, he backed away, rounded the corner and ran. Job well done. He ran through the alleys of Riften until he was absolutely certain he wasn’t followed, then slowed to a walk, taking off the disguise and casually dropping it over the railing and into the canal. Poor canal was used as a dumping ground for everything these days.

Two in the morning. The perfect time for his last visit. He shouldn’t have dumped his disguise, damnit. How stupid was that? Still, he intended not to be seen, so the disguise wouldn’t be necessary if he did his job well. The bunkhouse didn’t hold much in the way of valuables, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to break in. And unless the place was particularly full on a given day (which it wasn’t tonight), the beggars and losers would all be sleeping upstairs. Sleeping on the floor was agony with the cold in Riften.

The bunkhouse was a two-storey wooden building, built without much pretention, just logs stacked on top of each other until they looked like a house. There were two entrances, not including the windows, and Falnas would, of course, be taking the back.

He sneaked around to the back of the house and pulled his dagger, snapping the lock open with a simple lever movement. Carefully, he pushed the door open, wincing when he heard the creaking sound of the joints. The bunkhouse interior was dark, but Falnas’ keen eyes told him nobody was here. Or wait, there was one. In the corner, an old man lay on a cot, gently snoring. The bunkhouse had apparently been fuller than he’d thought. No matter, the man probably wouldn’t wake up if he was quiet enough. He tiptoed inside, wishing he’d studied magick, since there was apparently a spell that could let one see in the dark. Ah well, he’d have to do without.

As his eyes adapted to the low light, he found he could see a bit more. And what little light there was reflected off a statue on a shelf, of a nude woman in a rapturous pose. At its foot were flowers, nuts and a stick of incense. That was what he was looking for. Quietly, he crept to the statue, picked it up and left his note in its place. ‘100 septims for the Guild, under the rock without moss under the lantern at the front gate. Pay or Dibella takes a dive into the latrine pit’.

He wrapped the statue in cloth and made to leave, when he heard a scratching sound coming from the front door. Damn, someone was trying to get in. He didn’t have time to bolt to the back door, so he simply ducked behind a pile of stacked straw mattresses in the corner.

The figure that made the door creak open was not Haelga. Haelga was blonde, like this one, true, but she was also potbellied and bowlegged. This one had the body and bearing of a warrior in the prime of her life, and her hair was shoulder-length, unlike Haelga’s messy ass-length braid.

The woman snuck past the pile of mattresses, to the sleeping figure on the cot. And as she passed by a slit of moonlight coming in through the wall, Falnas recognized her instantly. It was the woman that was apparently good friends with Mjoll the Lioness. The one that had shouted at a bar patron and flung him away like a rag doll. The supposed Dovahkiin.

But what was she doing here, sneaking around in this grungy bunkhouse? Maybe she was short on septims to pay for her tacky dragonbone armour. Wouldn’t that be hilarious. No, it had to be something else. Maybe something personal between her and the old man? Nah, couldn’t be it either.

The woman, dressed in black leather with muffled joints – Falnas could recognize high-quality stealth armour in the dark – bent over the man and, with her back to Falnas, brought her head down. It looked like she was whispering something in his ear.

There was a strange, almost inaudible, sound of lips smacking, and the woman rose again.

With her wrist, she wiped the leftover blood off her chin.

By Sotha Sil’s withered balls!

Falnas held his breath, watching the woman standing with her eyes closed, apparently savouring the moment, the sliver of moonlight falling on her pale face. So the mighty dragon-slaying heroine of Skyrim was a bloodsucker. Falnas had heard about Vampires, but this was the first time he’d actually seen one.

The Nord’s eyes flew open, and in a quick, silent movement, her sword was out, pointed straight at Falnas. “Step out from there,” she hissed, loudly enough to wake the man on the cot. Oddly, he just kept snoring.

Falnas kept still, looking at the woman through the cracks in the cot pile. Maybe she hadn’t seen him. Or maybe if he stayed still, she’d think it had just been a trick of the eye.

“If you don’t come out, I’m stabbing you right through these cots.”

Falnas didn’t doubt for a moment that she would. It seemed surrender was the better part of valour. Sighing in disappointment at his own ineptitude, he stood up with his hands held up. “I’m not armed,” he whispered.

“Wouldn’t make a difference if you were,” the woman said back. No, it probably wouldn’t. “Walk.” She nudged the tip of her sword at the back door. “Outside, move.”

Falnas complied, even though he knew she was just leading him outside so she could stab him through the throat unhindered. Fuck, fuck, he’d have to act like he did what she asked, and then hope for an opportunity to distract her or slip away. Falnas went out the door, staying as quiet as he could, and the woman followed him.

Cold rain had started falling, and Falnas complained, “Wonderful. I get to die in wet clothes.”

“What have you seen?”

Falnas sighed again and let his shoulders slump. “That you bit the old man and sucked his blood. Please, let’s not insult each other by playing mind games.”

“Turn around.” When Falnas didn’t respond immediately, the woman repeated, “ _Turn around_.”

This time he did as he was told, and found himself face to face with the dragonslayer. She wasn’t that bad-looking, up close. For a Nord at least. Hard features, and icy blue eyes whose pupils reflected the light in pale red. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and she had a strong jaw, which was made even more noticeable by her sunken cheeks. Her face was a bit manly, as most Nord faces were, but she wasn’t ugly. By Nord standards. Falnas realized it’d probably be the last face he saw.

“You know who I am, right?”

Falnas nodded. “Yes. Arska Gvalhir. You’re not exactly... a nobody.”

“You are going to keep absolutely, totally, completely fucking _quiet_ about what you just saw. Is that clear?”

Whoa, what? She was going to let him go? This was a game, right? A trick to make him feel hopeful just so she could enjoy stabbing him more. Still, he had to take the chance. “Yes. Clear as crystal. Look, it’s not my business what you do at night. And it doesn’t look like you’re killing anyone, so...”

“Damn right I’m not killing anyone.” She chuckled without humour, looking back at the bunkhouse. “Not with what I do here, at least.” She let her wary gaze rest on him for a while longer, then lowered her sword. It was a black-bladed thing, slightly curved, with wicked serrations on the back. Not something he felt like getting lodged between his ribs. “I’ll let you live,” she said. “But you better keep your tongue tied about this.”

“I swear,” Falnas said solemnly.

‘Not sure I can trust a thief on his word,” the woman said, nudging her chin at the fabric-wrapped statue Falnas carried. “What’s that all about?”

“Oh, that’s... uh,” saying it was a squabble over protection money would be a bad idea, “a statue I’m stealing back for a client. The owner stole it and my client’s been mad with grief and worry that the Nine will turn away from her if I don’t retrieve it. So, hence.” He hoped the lie was convincing enough.

“Hmm. Well, like I said, keep your tongue tied. Trust me, you’ll be dead before anyone believes you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Falnas said, completely sincere. “I have no desire whatsoever to risk my neck just so I can share some gossip. The Guild’s all about discretion, after all.”

“Mm. Well, I have to go. Keep your nose clean,” she said with a little smirk. So she could show amusement after all. “Have fun repossessing statues.”

“Have fun uh... dragonborning,” he replied, then watched her walk off into the rainy night.

What a strange encounter that was. Still, he’d spoken to the Dragonborn, and she didn’t turn out to be a bad sort.. If he kept this little thing silent, then maybe someday, he could ask her for a little favour or two.

It had been a close one. If that sword-slinging amazon hadn’t believed him, his head would be rolling on the flagstones by now. It was a good night to be alive, especially since he could now report back to Brynjolf. He had one pouch of a hundred septims in hand, and two more payments were forthcoming – and Falnas didn’t doubt for a second that they would come. It was time to go tell Brynjolf he’d proven his worth, and see what the Guild was really all about.


	12. Keljarn: Proving Honour

**Keljarn**

**Proving Honour**

**Jorrvaskr**

 

Oh, by the Nine, the _hangover_.

He remembered where he was – Jorrvaskr – and what he was doing here. He’d joined the Companions after getting an offer that was so good he’d be insulting them by even considering it before accepting, and then there’d been mead. Lots of mead. Too much mead. He vaguely recalled Farkas inspecting his axe, and saying it was clearly an Avenicci, Vilkas and Aela asking him things about him, his past, his home, family, and so on.

As he struggled a bit harder to remember, which made his head pound more painfully, he recalled waxing poetic at one point, proclaiming how wonderful it was to be a Nord and to be a free Nord, to find strength on the mountaintops and in the ice cold wind, and all that kind of drunken-passionate tripe he spewed when he was drunk and wanted to emphasize that he was a Nord and not a Breton.

The rest of the night was a complete blank. But judging from the way his head felt, he’d been drinking until he’d fallen over. How he’d made it to his bed, he had no idea, but he didn’t think it would have been in a straight line or without falling over.

Where _was_ his bed anyway? It wasn’t the inn room, so he assumed he was still in Jorrvaskr, probably in the rooms under the hall. His head pounded in pain, the thumping intensifying with every little movement he made, and his mouth was cork dry. His stomach made slow, lazy tumbles.

He opened his eyes and saw light coming from the opening in the door. Biting the pain in his head, he sat up and put one foot on the ground.

He felt something wet and soft squish under his foot, and promptly, the sour smell of vomit stabbed his nostrils. Ah, crap.

Just to make sure, he felt the other side of the bed to make sure there was no woman in there. Because he wouldn’t be the first to wake up next to someone he didn’t even remember. There was a reason why jokes about drunk men waking up butt naked in the woods always featured a Nord.

His bed was empty apart from him though, thankfully. He wouldn’t have minded waking up after a night of unremembered romance per se, but only if it didn’t involve throwing up next to the bed.

He wiped the sole of his foot on his tunic (that was ripe for the pyre anyway) and rose to his feet, his head pounding so hard he had to close his eyes and just hold his hands to his temple for a few minutes. He’d given up on making the morning-after vow to never drink again, but if there was ever an argument against irresponsible drinking, this was it. What misery.

He staggered outside, squinting against the light. Ria, the Breton-or-Imperial girl who’d been so dedicated the day before, whirled around when she heard his door creak further open. “Oh. Good morning. Umm... is there anything I can do for you?”

“Of course not,” he joked in a croaking voice. “Don’t I look the picture of health?”

She permitted herself a short chuckle, then said, “Things can get a bit rowdy here at the hall. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

“Not sure I’ll ever get used to _this_.” This was probably the worst hangover he’d ever had. But then again, didn’t all hangovers feel that way?

“I hope I wasn’t too annoying last night?” she asked.

“Uh... If you were, it wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t even remember talking to you.”

Her face held a mixture of relief and regret. “Oh. Well, it wasn’t important anyway.”

“What’d we talk about?”

“Oh just... things. I can be a bit long-winded when I’m talking about why I want to become a good warrior, I think.”

He managed a chuckle despite his pain. “Well, if you don’t mind telling the story again, I’d like to hear it. When I’m less comatose.”

She smiled and nodded. “Alright. I’m sure we’ll still be seeing a lot of each other. And um... it may be a bit out of line, but... well, welcome to the Companions.”

“Thanks but... why would it be out of line?”

“Well... I’m just an initiate, and you’re already an apprentice. Seems weird welcoming someone who’s higher up than me.”

“Oh, like that. Well, I consider myself the new guy, so no need to worry.”

She smiled again. “Okay.” She wasn’t good-looking, but she had a fire in her eyes, he’d noticed it the day before too, and she was friendly to a fault. He was briefly tempted to tell her the Inner Circle were very close to making her apprentice, but he decided against it. It wasn’t his place, much as he liked to give her the good news. “I think you should go see Aela now, she said she had a few more things to tell you.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Might be a good idea to put some clothes on first though.”

Oh crap. Looking down at himself, he realized he only wore his loincloth. Of course, he’d used his tunic to wipe his feet. Yeah, the Companions probably weren’t all that hung-up on dress codes, but a small degree of decency was probably not a bad idea.

“There should be clothes in your room?” Ria helpfully pointed out when she saw his probably extremely stupid expression.

“Oh. That’s good, because the clothes I wore last night...”

She made a sour face. “No. Might be a bad idea to wear those ever again.”

There were indeed clothes in the room, some basic cloth and fur garments, but they were good enough. Better than just his loincloth at any rate. Putting them on was quite the ordeal with his pounding hangover, but if he was going to be a Companion, might as well bite the pain. As he tied the laces of the soft leather boots provided for him, he heard a voice from the doorway.

“So. This is our new addition.”

He looked up to see a tall and powerfully-built Nord leaning on the door jamb, his arms crossed. He was massive, almost as big as the two brothers, but his head was shaven, and over his left eye ran a wince-worthy scar, the eye replaced by a matte glass orb. Wicked tattoos ran over the sides of his head, and he had two horizontal double-stripes of red war paint on each cheek. “Doesn’t look like much from where I’m standing.”

“Well I uh, I don’t think anyone looks like much when they’re battling the worst hangover of their lives.” Keljarn didn’t know the man, and in situations like these, you never knew who you had in front of you, so always best to stay cautious and not give yourself too much of an air.

The man laughed, which was always a good sign. “Don’t worry, milk drinker. We’ll make a man out of you eventually.”

“Just not today, if it’s all the same to you.”

Yeah, that had been a dumb thing to say. The man’s grin widened and he said, “ _Especially_ today. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Ah crap, these guys didn’t sit around. Keljarn followed the man with the shaved head up a flight of stairs and into the hall of Jorrvaskr. So the rooms were on the cellar level. Not an unreasonable choice if it meant more room for the mead hall, Keljarn supposed. There weren’t many people in the hall right now. The only ones he saw were the snippy shield-polisher and Farkas. He must have a head of steel, because he’d drank even more than Keljarn had, and he looked perfectly chipper. When he noticed Keljarn, he bellowed in laughter. “Rise and shine, pup. You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Keljarn croaked. “I wager I do.”

Farkas held out the bread basket to him. “Breakfast?”

“Ewgh, no thanks. I can’t get anything through my gullet right now.”

Farkas shrugged and took the bread basket back. “Your loss. So, Skjor, big day today?” That confirmed what Keljarn already thought. This was the oft-spoken-of Skjor.

“I’d say so,” the shaven man said. “Time to set out for Wuuthrad. You better come back with that fragment.”

“Wait, ‘you’?” Keljarn echoed. “You’re not coming with?”

The man shook his head.

“And they call _me_ a milk drinker.”

“I don’t waste time with Initiates,” the older man said. “Especially if they’ve been appointed without my saying so. You prove your worth, and _then_ you can come with me on the real jobs. Until then, you go with Farkas and do whatever he tells you.” The unlikeable little wench in the corner grinned when she heard it.

Well, at least he’d be traipsing around with the far more amiable Farkas than with grumpy old Skjor. Still, it wasn’t a good sign that he wasn’t invited on the big jobs yet. Then again, what had he expected? The instant promotion to Initiate was pretty great already, and it figured that he’d have to prove his worth a bit before being privy to the group’s ‘real’ work. “Fine,” he merely said. “I’ll just ignore my hangover.”

“Ignore it or complain about it, I don’t care,” Skjor grunted, walking off. “But you better come back with that fragment.”

When Skjor had gone out, Keljarn asked Farkas, “What fragment is he talking about?”

“Sit down,” Farkas said. “Have some milk, you need it. He’s talking about a fragment of Wuuthrad.”

“Wuuthrad?” Keljarn asked.

Farkas snorted with a grin, “Damn, son. You’re so proud to be a Nord, then you have to know your history. Wuuthrad, also known as the Merslayer, is the battle axe Ysgramor wielded, long ago. You know who Ysgramor was, right?”

“Yeah,” Keljarn said. All the memories from the night before weren’t driven from him fully. “The founder of the Companions.”

Farkas nodded. “Exactly. Guess you can understand why we would want to find the fragments and reassemble it, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Well,” Farkas explained, “We’ve located one in a place called Dustman’s Cairn, not that far from here. You and me, we’re going to get it. Nevermind what Skjor said, we’re both going in as allies, you’re not like, my squire or anything.”

“That’s nice of you, Farkas,” Keljarn said, meaning it.

“Meh. Anyway, let’s head out. You can sweat out your hangover on the road.”

“Yeah,” Keljarn said, holding his head. “Wish I’d stayed in bed.”

“Skjor would have just dragged you out. Let’s go.”

Dustman’s Cairn wasn’t that far, only a few hours’ walk, and as they went, Keljarn’s headache gradually diminished, until it was only a faint throb when they got to their destination. Farkas talked Keljarn’s ear off about the Companions, about Skyrim, and everything else. Their walk took them northwest of Whiterun, through rolling plains wedged in between two mountain ranges. The weather was fine in the beginning, a cold wind but the sun shining happily, keeping them both warm. As they progressed, however, it became more and more gray, until, in the late afternoon, there wasn’t a single bit of blue sky visible anymore. The first flakes of melting snow began to fall when Farkas stopped and pointed at a cave mouth. “This should be it,” he simply said, shrugging off his backpack and taking out the necessary items for cave-crawling. Keljarn did the same, unpacking the oil lantern and filling it, hooking a few pitons on his belt and slinging the rope around his shoulder. Farkas hung a decent-sized pick on a loop on his belt, and hung a small pouch of medical supplies on the other. They were ready to go.

Keljarn lit the oil lantern and nodded. “Ready.”

Farkas nodded back. “Let’s do this.”

In they went, Keljarn having to light the oil lantern almost right away because the cave was pitch dark. “Careful,” Farkas warned. “Ground’s uneven. Wouldn’t want to take a nasty spill before we have a chance to get the fragment.”

“No, let’s save that for after.”

The cave itself was rather narrow, but the footing was mostly manageable, Keljarn only occasionally stumbling and having to lean against the wall for balance.

“Right,” Keljarn heard Falnas say. “This isn’t a natural cave. Bound to be traps, be careful.”

He emerged into a large room, illuminated by phosphorescent fungus, not very well lit, but enough to be able to extinguish the lantern for a bit and save oil. “So what is this then?”

“Pretty sure the fragment was placed in some kind of place of worship,” Farkas said, looking around the room. It was hewn out of the stone by human hands, with a high ceiling covered with fungus that gave off a pale blue light. It was icy cold inside the cave, and from everywhere came the dripping of moisture. Farkas’ breath left white puffs of miasma.

“That fungus,” Keljarn said, “It’s not the kind that can take over your mind and make you blind so you have to rely on sound, and you spend your days making clicking noises, is it?”

Farkas shook his head. “You’ve been reading too many books, friend. I suggest a harmless little pun joke book to get those crazy ideas out of your head.”

“Yeah, yeah. There’s a lever here,” Keljarn said, spotting the rod that stuck out of the ground in an alcove. “Think it opens something?”

“Maybe,” Farkas said. “But I think there’s an opening right there. Still, it’s there for a reason, so pull it.”

“You sure?” Keljarn asked. He figured it was always best to look around as much as possible before pulling any levers. It could be a trap, Farkas himself had just said there might be.

But the big man shrugged and said, “Pull it, it’s the only way to be sure.”

“Alright then,” Keljarn said, “but if I’m crushed by a stone, I’m going to reincarnate into a bird and poop on your head.”

With a chuckle, Farkas said, “Faint heart never won fragment.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nervously, Keljarn pulled the lever.

rrrrRRRRCLANG!

Nine damnit, he knew it’d be a trap! Surprised that he wasn’t dead, Keljarn realized that the lever had made a heavy portcullis slam down, trapping him in the alcove. He tried to lift the thing back up, but it wouldn’t budge, locked in place by some kind of mechanism.

Farkas’ heavy, hoarse laughter came toward him. “Gate trap. Good thing I’m here or you’d have rotted in there.”

“Glad you think it’s funny,” Keljarn grunted. “Now how ‘bout getting me out of here?”

“Sure, let me just look for – ”

“They fell for it! Get ‘em! For the Silver Hand!” came a battlecry from the other side of the cave. Farkas whipped his head around and he and Keljarn saw four or five figures charge in from the cave entrance, hard to see in the faint light of the fungi, but definitely there. Dammit they’d been followed!

“It’ll have to wait,” Farkas rapped, before launching himself at the attackers.

 _Five against one_ , Keljarn thought, _he doesn’t stand a chance_. _He’s gonna die and then they’ll either kill me or leave me to rot!_

With a roar, Farkas fell upon the men who ambushed them. In the faint light, Keljarn couldn’t see more than dark shapes, but something happened to Farkas. He _changed_. In a brutal, horrible phantasmagoria of death, Keljarn saw the flashes of human figures being struck down, blood spattering against the walls as their arteries were torn open and their bones broken, their bodies launched against the walls like bleeding, broken rag dolls. Keljarn heard inhuman growling, screams of pain, and the clatter of weapons falling to the ground, and then it was over. Only one person still stood, and as Keljarn looked on, a terrifying demonic shape slowly returned to human.

Footsteps sounded, the sound bouncing off the moist cave walls, as Farkas came back towards him, now bare-chested, his trousers split at the calves and thighs, vertical tears exposing the hairy skin beneath.

“F... Farkas,” Keljarn stammered. “What in Oblivion just happened?”

Farkas only chuckled mysteriously. “Five people attacked me, and they died.”

“Yes but... but you...”

“But I what?” he asked. Keljarn could see in the faint light that his face was amused. “Don’t worry, it’ll all become clear, later. When you’re a bit more experienced.”

“Farkas,” Keljarn asked with insistence. “What did you do?”

Farkas gave him an impatient look. “I said it’d become clear later. Now, let’s get you out of there.” He scanned the wall next to the niche and said, “Aha.”

“What, ‘aha’?”

With a grin, Farkas raised his hand and pulled the chain hanging from the wall, and the gate mechanism released with a click. They both grabbed the portcullis and pulled it up, making it click back into place again in its open position.

“They had to get the victims out after they were dead, I suppose,” Keljarn reasoned. “Not an efficient trap if it’s full of dead bodies.”

With a nod, Farkas said, “Mm, that’s probably the reason, yes. I wouldn’t look at the corpses, if I were you.”

Keljarn did it regardless, and immediately regretted that he had. The bodies were torn apart, one assassin (or whatever they were) had been disembowelled, his viscera torn from his belly to lie on the stone floor in a black clump. A female had her face literally torn off, and all Keljarn had been able to discern in the bloody mess was the white of two remaining teeth. Whatever Farkas had done, or what he had become, it was something with superhuman, even monstrous strength.

“Farkas, you...” Keljarn breathed, but Farkas merely said, “Later.”

They crossed the room and found themselves in a smaller area, where a pedestal sat in the middle. On the pedestal lay a glinting shard of steel.

“There we go,” Farkas pointed out. “Only magical steel stays in that condition for so many years.”

“Is this the point where you cut yourself and say ‘still sharp’?”

Farkas chuckled. “Daedra, no. Just because it’s still shiny doesn’t mean you can’t pick up a nasty infection from it.”

Taking a piece of cloth from his pack, Farkas made to wrap the shard in it, but Keljarn stopped him. “There’s a reason it’s still there. You can tell me this thing has been here for years and years and no one’s stolen it yet. Bound to be warded or trapped.”

“Mm. It’s possible, yes.” Farkas paused for a moment, then said, “but we’ll never know unless we remove it.”

Before Keljarn could stop him the second time, Farkas scooped up the shard of metal and wrapped it in the fabric.

Silence fell, both of them looking around the eerie fungus-lit cavern. Nothing happened.

With a chortling laugh, Farkas said, “Well, looks like you were worried for noth – ”

A loud _BAM_! rent the silence, and then another one. Farkas and Keljarn exchanged a startled glance. “What the...”

Then they saw what had caused the noise: the lids of two upright sarcophagi had flown off, banging against the opposite wall and cracking into pieces.

“Good thing those didn’t hit us,” Farkas remarked.

“Don’t be silly,” Keljarn said, gripping his axe tightly. “That’s not what they were for, we weren’t even close. No, I’m thinking – ”

Keljarn was proven right when they saw what emerged from the sarcophagus.

Two figures lurched out from the stone coffins, shambling on their lanky legs. The skin was drawn tight over their bones, and it was stringy and of a sickly pale colour, which looked light blue in the faint light of the fungus.

Their faces were the worst, the lips rotted away, showing dirty, crooked teeth, and the eye sockets empty, black pits above jutting cheekbones.

“By the Nine,” Keljarn breathed. “Walking dead?”

“Draugr,” Farkas said with a nod, raising his weapon. “Our long-dead ancestors.”

“Rising from the grave to protect ancient Nordic artifacts?” Keljarn asked.

“Something like that.”

They were slow, but the weapons they bore looked brutal enough. One carried an old, rusted hatchet, and the other wielded a greatsword. The slowly advanced on Keljarn and Farkas, blocking their escape.

“How do we kill them?” Keljarn asked.

“Like you kill everything else,” Farkas grunted. “I hope.” He licked his lips, flexed his neck and said, “Let’s get ‘em!”

With a roar, Farkas threw himself forward, right at the shambling figure with the axe. Moments later, Keljarn did the same, his one-handed axe swinging in a wide arc at the draugr holding the greatsword.

Despite their shambling gait, the draugr were surprisingly fast when springing into action, and the walking corpse blocked the axe with the blade of its swords, making sparks spring off the blades. It struck back, whacking a rotten elbow into the side of Keljarn’s head. As Keljarn staggered backward, dizzy from the blow, the draugr swung again, and only pure reflex saved Keljarn’s abdomen from being split open as he let himself fall backwards, out of the arc of the massive blade. He came down hard on his backside, and the draugr raised his greatsword to split him in two with a powerful downward blow. With a yelp, Keljarn rolled to the side, and the blade struck the rock with a dry crack.

Sweeping his leg, Keljarn kicked both of the undead’s legs out from under it, and the creature fell on the ground, bones snapping as it came down. From its prone position, it feebly swung its greatsword at the rising Keljarn, but he side-stepped the clumsy blow easily, and brought his axe down on the creature’s throat, making the vertebrae snap and splinter, beheading it in one blow. He hoped that was enough, and it was. The draugr lay still.

He spun around to help Farkas, but there was no need, as Farkas shoved the draugr back with a hard front kick and then brought his weapon down on its collarbone, splitting its torso diagonally down its length with a massive blow, his weapon crunching ribs as it came down, chopping into the creature’s body all the way to the abdomen, where it got stuck. He kicked out again, kicking the draugr off his weapon and it fell to the ground, the unlife driven from it.

“Whew,” Farkas remarked with a grin. “Pretty spry for their age, huh?”

“Age hasn’t done wonders for their body odour though,” Keljarn grunted, as he became aware of the dry, dusty smell of decay in his nostrils. “Let’s go, be nice to see the sun again.”

“The clouds, you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. The sky at any rate.”

There were no more traps or ambushes, and they again made their way past the shredded remains of the cowards that had ambushed them. The Silver Hand, they’d called themselves. Keljarn wondered what their deal was, but Farkas had said he’d get everything explained to him in due time, and despite his usually loquacious nature, he didn’t reveal anything more, even when prodded.

Keljarn closed his eyes in relief when he found himself under the cloudy, drizzly sky again. It was rotten weather, but at least it wasn’t a damp cave filled with bedamned walking corpses.

He felt a hand clap on his shoulder and stumbled from the sudden force.

With a laugh, Farkas told him, “Not a bad job, initiate. Even Skjor will be impressed when I tell him you took on a draugr all on your own. Well, he’ll never show it, of course.”

“No, didn’t peg him for the type to throw me flowers.”

“Let’s head on back. We’ve got what we came for, and we’re overdue for a bottle of mead!”


	13. Siari: Sanctuary

**SIARI**

**Sanctuary**

**The Black Door**

 

“This is the place,” Astrid said to Siari as they stood in front of a strange black door. It seemed to lead to a cave hewn out of the rock. The black stone, if seen from the right angle, had a relief of a skull and a hand carved into it. “If you come through this door with me, there is no way back. We keep no secrets from you, nor you from us. You will be family.”

Siari nodded. She’d never had a family, like Astrid had guessed an hour ago. Being part of one, even if it was a family of murderers, would be the most wonderful thing that could happen to her. The fact that they were killers rather than farmers or blacksmiths might even be an advantage. Murderers had to look out for each other, trust each other, depend on each other. For the first time in a long while, Siari’s heart raced. She said nothing, but nodded and smiled. She could wish for nothing more than to finally have a family.

“Then from now on, you are our blood,” Astrid said, then turned to the door.

An ethereal, sibilant voice like the smell of rot on the wind asked, “What is the music of life?”

Astrid replied with, “Silence, my brother.”

The voice spoke again, but this time Siari knew it was speaking to her and not Astrid. “Welcome home.”

The words made her heart quicken even more.

“Come,” Astrid said. “Time to meet your new family.”

They descended the roughly-hewn stairs into an antechamber, also cut out of the rock. A table was set in the middle, a map of Skyrim rolled out on it. A burly Nord with long white hair stood waiting. For some reason, he only wore tattered pants, leaving his broad, scarred chest bare… and he seemed to walk bare-footed as well. For some reason.

“So who’s this veal cutlet?” the Nord rumbled, crossing his arms in front of his muscled chest. “We adopting teenagers off the street now?”

That… wasn’t exactly welcoming.

“Meet my husband Arnbjorn,” Astrid said motherly. “Don’t worry, he’s a little rough around the edges, but his heart is in the right place. We have no secrets here, so tell her Arnbjorn?”

“Ugh,” the Nord grunted, rolling his eyes, then said to Siari, ”Fine, if Astrid says you’re family, then I suppose I have to.” He paused. “I’m a werewolf. If I call you names, it’s because I have trouble not seeing you as food. Will that be a problem, rack of lamb?”

After briefly having to make sense of his words, Siari shook her head.

Astrid made to introduce her. “Arnbjorn, this is…” Then she realized she’d never asked Siari’s name. “…Hm. I spent a lot of time tracking you down but I never did catch your name, Sister.”

Uh… yeah, that’d be a little difficult. As always when people asked her name… well, not as always, most of the time she just kept silent, but when she did feel inclined to say her name, she made a writing gesture.

“Wait… you want something to write?” Astrid asked, not understanding.

Siari nodded.

Astrid searched for a piece of parchment on the table but found nothing. So she simply turned over the Skyrim map and gave her a quill. “Here, you can write on the back of this.”

Arnbjorn snorted in disapproval, but Siari took the quill and wrote her name.

“What’s that? SEE-a-ree?”

Siari wagged a finger and placed it on her name, making an upward line as it went over the -i- and then the -a-.

“Oh… si-AH-ree?”

With a smile, Siari nodded enthusiastically.

Astrid’s face turned to a frown though. “Now, Sister, since we have no secrets here, you don’t have to be afraid to talk.”

“Yeah,” Arnbjorn added. “Cat got your tongue?”

She realized she shouldn’t keep it a secret, so after a moment’s hesitation, she opened her mouth wide. Arnbjorn stayed rather unmoved, but she saw Astrid’s eyes flinch above her mask. “Damn…” she breathed. “It’s… gone?”

Siari could only nod. She wasn't hiding it in her gullet, if that's what they thought.

As if it was the most normal question in the world, Arnbjorn asked, “So how do you swallow?”

Cocking her head, Siari swallowed, making sure he saw the movement in her throat. Like everyone else, of course. How else?

“Who did this to you?” Astrid asked, her eyes concerned.

Siari shrugged and shook her head. It didn't matter.

“Alright. Maybe you'll tell us in time.” Astrid extended her hand toward the stairs that led deeper into the lair. “Go have a look around the Sanctuary. Get acquainted with the others. Keep no secrets from them, they'll keep none from you. You're family now, and we all trust each other. Without trust, none of us can survive.”

Arnbjorn crossed his arms and rumbled, “Take some time 'til I can trust this little chicken wing. She looks so frail I'm afraid of breathing too hard at her.”

“This path does not require strength or brawn, Arnbjorn. You know that,” Astrid said patiently. “Now go on, Sister, explore your new home.”

Oh, no. There was one thing left to do before that. Siari made a gesture of pulling a mask down, then pointed at Astrid.

With a laugh, the woman said, “Fine, I suppose you're right.” And with a swift motion, she took her mask off, revealing the face of a Nord woman in her mid-thirties, good-looking but with a hard, determined face. Two long braids of brown hair with tinges of grey hung down her back. She looked a bit... anticlimactic. Somehow Siari had expected something... more spectacular. Still, when she thought of it, it was only to be expected that Astrid looked normal. Killers were normal people too. She was even glad for it, in fact. Who knows how she _could have_ looked. “Now go on, meet with everyone else. Arnbjorn and I have... business to discuss.”

Siari was only fifteen, but she knew damn well what kind of 'business' Astrid and her husband had to discuss. And she knew damn well she should leave them to it.

She descended the uneven stairs, in the flickering light of the torches along the way and wondered how it was that the torches kept burning without sucking all the air from the place. Probably a ventilation shaft somewhere. She emerged into a large cave, with a small waterfall and tiny pond in the back. A large round stained glass window was set in the far wall, torches flickering behind it, making the red-and-black skeletal hand motif in the window cast an eerie writhing shadow on the cave ground. What a strange place, yet all the morbidity of it didn't scare her in the least. For a group of assassins, it was obvious how useful it would be to have a terrifying image, and cultivating an image began at home. And after all, it was an assassin's guild. It's not like she was expecting tapestries with flower motifs and cuddly stuffed animals in every corner.

Astrid had told her to meet her new family, but there was no one there. In the left-hand corner stood an assortment of smithing gear, which Siara had no idea how to operate. Carefully, she stepped through the cave, towards the stairs leading back up into a smaller corridor at the far end. When she passed, she heard a raspy laugh from next to her, extremely closely. She jumped at the noise.

“Startle you, did I, child?”

When she looked closely, she saw there was an Argonian sitting there, almost invisible in the shadows. His scales were dark with a green shine, and he seemed to blend into the environment. Still shaky, Siari nodded.

“Someone new used the door, so we know Astrid's welcomed a new family member. My name is Veezara, and I am one of the Shadowscales, one of the last. Welcome to Astrid's little family.”

Siara frowned at the nomination of it being Astrid's little family.

The Argonian had picked up on it and said, “I call it Astrid's family because despite the close bond we have, Astrid leads this Sanctuary, and her word is law.”

Hm, Siari supposed the authoritarian way was _one_ way to lead a family. And as long as it was within limits... Then again, Siari had to admit to herself that she longed to be accepted into a family, _any_ family, and how it was led wouldn't change that. Besides, what she'd seen of Astrid so far had been motherly and a bit condescending, but accepting and much warmer than she'd expected from an assassin.

“You seem... a young lady of few words?” the Argonian observed.

Siari didn’t feel like showing the inside of her mouth to everyone there, so she just shrugged and nodded, to which the Argonian reacted with a raspy chuckle. “Certainly not a bad thing in our line of work.”

“This our new arrival?” a deep male voice asked. In one of the doorways stood a Redguard, dressed in dark red, with two scimitars in his belt. He had a moustache and pointed goatee and wore a turban on his head. “The new addition to our dwindling, dysfunctional little family?”

“The same,” the Argonian confirmed.

“I see,” the Redguard said, looking wary. “You look awfully young. At least, for someone who was just picked up off the street.”

“Most assassins here in the Brotherhood,” the Argonian explained, “are either trained from a very young age, or coaxed away from other guilds.”

Siari nodded.

“Still,” the Redguard said, “If Astrid thinks you have potential, then who am I to argue? Let’s hope it’s more than three days before someone runs a knife across your throat. My name is Nazir. Yours?”

Siari snatched a piece of paper and a nugget of charcoal from the smithing workbench and wrote down her name.

“Can’t speak?”the Redguard asked curtly, reading the piece of paper. Siari shook her head. “Well, at least you won’t be bad for the peace and quiet around here then. Come, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Sure, being introduced was always nice. She followed the Redguard as he walked up the stairs set in the far wall of the atrium. They led to several small rooms hewn out of the mountain, by human hands, probably an expansion of the natural cave. One was a small central room with a table and an alchemy workbench, and around it were hewn small bedrooms. At the table sat an old man dressed in a red and black robe, and a child that looked no older than nine. She hadn’t thought about it yet, but she realized now that she’d expected to have been the youngest one there.

The two were having a conversation and went on with it as Siari and the Redguard entered.

“So I was all like, ‘but sir, I’m just a little girl’, and he just gave me this really creepy look and said, ‘I know, but I won’t tell anyone if you won’t’.”

The old man scrunched his wrinkled face up in disgust.

The child went on, enthusiastic about her own story, “You should have _seen_ the look on his face when he realized he wasn’t getting into my dress, or anyone else’s either.” The giggle she made after it sounded childlike, but the way she told her story, anything but. “His neck snapped like a twig.”

The old man harrumphed. “You let him off easy. I would have set fire to his feet, his fingers, and then his – ”

The child flapped her hand at him. “Yeah I know, I know, you’re always ‘fire fire fire’.”

He shrugged. “He would have deserved no less.”

The child turned to Siari and her guide. “Oh, but Festus, we’re being rude. We should greet our new family member.”

The old man laughed hoarsely and said, “Indeed we should.” In the gloomy cave room, lit only by a few torches set against the wall, the whole scene looked cosy and homely. The creepy atmosphere they’d tried to create in the atrium obviously didn’t extend to the living area. “Welcome to the Brotherhood, young lady.”

“The Brother- and _Sister_ hood,” the child corrected.

The old man gave the child a weary look before continuing, “You’re the one that bled that nasty old biddy in the orphanage in Riften, yes?”

Siari nodded and the Redguard introduced her. “Her name’s Siari. She doesn’t speak.” Nice and blunt.

“Good riddance on that crone in the orphanage, I say,” the old man told her.

“Oh, but”, the child took over, “the job was _pret_ -ty amateuristic. Beginner stuff if you ask me.”

Siari gave a lopsided shrug. Of course it was ‘beginner stuff’. It’s not like she’d been trained to do it or anything.

The Argonian, who’d followed them up the stairs, seemed to agree. “We all had to start somewhere, Babette. Not everyone’s had the benefit of all your years of experience.”

Siari thought the Argonian was being sarcastic, but the child’s reaction puzzled her. Rather than defending herself or calling the Argonian out on what Siari thought was a veiled insult, she leaned back, thought for a second and said, “No, you’re right. Sometimes I forget.”

“Don’t worry about this old curmudgeon,” the old man said, referring to the young child. “This is Babette, and my name is Festus Krex. We all have our speciality here in the Brotherhood.” The child made to correct him again, but thought better of it. “Veezara here can sneak up on anyone and anything, Astrid handles all the leadership duties, Arnbjorn can pull the arms off a troll, and Babette... well, I’ll let her explain.”

With a smirk that was as snooty as it was adorable, the child explained, “You have _no_ idea how easy it is to get close to people if you look like a kid. Most people are all, ‘aww but she’s just a child, she’s totally harmless’. Even people like guards and soldiers fall for it. Because you know, who’s going to suspect a little kid?”

“And underestimating Babette,” the old man clarified, “is the always the first and last mistake her marks make.”

Siari blinked. She didn’t understand one bit of it. How could a child be so intelligent, so well-spoken? So coldly efficient? And even then, how could she possibly be an effective assassin? The minute she botched a job, it would be easy for her mark to overpower her, right?

The kid had picked up on it and she laughed. “See? You’re underestimating me already too.”

“Festus here is different from the rest of us,” the Redguard moved the conversation along even though Siari was still wondering about the Babette girl. “He’s not a big lover of blade or bow.”

Oh? What then?

The old man grinned broadly and said, “You can have your bows and your poking irons. Sure, they’re decent if you want to get all bloody, but I’ve got a far more effective weapon.”

“At least he thinks so,” Babette sneered.

The old man ignored her and continued, “You can be good at sticking pointy things into soft things that scream and bleed,” he said, “but to use a knife, you need to get up close. And if your mark’s aware there’s a contract on him, you’ll never be able to carry a bow anywhere near him. The weapon I have can’t be seen or taken away.” He paused for effect. When Siari made an inquisitive face, he continued, “They never expect a fireball from a dark doorway, or a jet of flame from behind a corner. And stabbing or shooting marks, pft, there’s no spectacle in that. You really want to bring a message across, make your victim scream and flail in a big pillar of flame.”

Ooh, the old man could cast spells. She’d heard of spellcasters, but never seen any in action.

“And lastly,” the Redguard said, “There’s Gabriella, our resident potion mixer. If you need someone poisoned, she’s the one to talk to. She’s working a job right now, but she’ll be back in a day or two. And like I said, I’m Nazir. I handle the day-to-day affairs. Allocating contracts, finances, that sort of thing. Speaking of which, I’ve got a job for you right now. Get your paws wet, so to speak. This way.”

“Aw, hey,” the little girl protested. “We were just getting to know each other.”

“Plenty of time for chit-chat later,” Nazir dismissed her. “Well, one-sided chit-chat in this case.”

Oh weren’t we funny.

“Come on, I’ll explain what needs to be done. Nothing too difficult. Who knows, you might even make it back.”

It was nothing too difficult indeed, or at least that was what it looked like. She’d had a choice between three contracts, one a beggar near Ivarstead, one mine boss somewhere on the plains near Whiterun, or a miller living near Helgen, a town recently destroyed by a raging fire, supposedly caused by a dragon attack. Dragons, yeah right.

She’d chosen the beggar in Markarth, of course, since easy targets made for easy jobs. She might have been quite the overachiever when Astrid was looking, but she didn’t feel the need to impress Nazir or prove her worth by taking a difficult target. A beggar was someone who couldn’t defend himself and whom nobody would miss. A much better target than a miller, who could probably swing a flail pretty hard, or a mine boss, who was constantly in the company of his men and who could probably cleave the skull of any assassin who botched his job.

Beggar Narfi was his name, and he was a middle-aged Nord living in the ruins of his old family home. He’d be easily recognizable, Nazir had said. Just look for the enormous chin and side-burns wider than his shoulders. The man apparently looked like an honest-to-Nine ape. He’d lived together with his sister, but she had died or moved away, or whatever. And now someone wanted the man dead. It was a sad tale, but Siari, like the rest of the Brotherhood, wasn’t supposed to sympathize. Strictly business.

She made it to Ivarstead easily enough, slogging the entire distance on foot and eating berries she found by the roadside, or simply pulling crops from the ground when she passed a farm. It was the season, so why not take advantage.

When she approached Ivarstead, she immediately noticed the ruined home a ways off. That was where Beggar Narfi would probably be found. And indeed, on a bench in front of the ruined house sat a man looking at a flower. As Siari watched, the man bent forward and picked another one, putting it between his fingers with the first. His mouth moved and an expression of pure grief came over the man’s face. The description Nazir have given her had been accurate. He had a chin like an anvil and side-burns that looked like he’d glued two rabbits to his face.

Siari walked the distance to the house. She didn’t intend to sneak up on him, just walk up to him and do the business.

She walked through the wild flowers and tall grass, holding her knife behind her back. There would be no reason for the man to be suspicious. The midday sun warmed her shoulders and a butterfly flitted from one flower to the other, then over Siari’s head and away.

Beggar Narfi had seen her now, raising his head, the two mountain flowers still between his fingers. Siari was about to kill this man, and she’d always been told killing was a horrible thing that left people traumatized, but like with the other people she killed, she didn’t feel a thing. She was doing what she was told, and that’s all she needed to know.

“Hello there,” the man greeted her when she came to stand in front of him. “What brings you here on such a fine day?”

Siari didn’t say anything – how could she – and the man’s eyes told her he realized why she was here.

“Fine,” he merely said. “I have nothing to live for anyway. Just get it over with.”

Siari took the knife from behind her back and thrust it forwards, between the man’s ribs, next to his sternum. Cold, clean, efficient. As the man died and slumped forward, falling down in the tall grass, his fingers still held the two mountain flowers.


	14. Acrus: Under Saarthal

**ACRUS**

**Under Saarthal**

**College Excavation Site**

 

“J’Zargo,” the Dunmer student said to the Khajiit, pointing at the other student’s lower half. “What on Nirn is that?”

The Khajiit chuckled. “J’Zargo is trying some new things. Tight things. These pants will make J’Zargo stand out. Going to get myself a woman.” And with another chuckle, he nudged his chin at the Nord apprentice. “This one cannot help but stare.”

“Excuse me, brother,” the Nord said. “But you’ve got a real nice lump down there.”

“Say what?” Acrus interrupted, disgusted.

“I said, a real nice lump down there.”

“Hey!” Acrus snapped. What kind of perverts were these? Were these his fellow apprentices? “Get a damn room!”

“For three?” the Dunmer woman asked with a lopsided sneer. “Would you like to taste for yourself?”

“I – what – _no_!” Acrus shouted. What in blazes was going on here? It wasn’t that the Dunmer apprentice was good-looking or anything, but he still didn’t want to be made out to be a deviant in front of a woman.

“Now, now,” the Nord apprentice said with a laugh. “Let’s not take the piss out of new guy too much.”

Oh, so that was what it was. Some newbie hazing. Acrus knew he had to cut that shit short as soon as it started. Nip it in the bud. “Yeah, I suggest you leave that be in the future, unless you want to be wearing your ass as a hat.”

The Nord’s laugh was instantly gone. Good, he’d made himself clear. “Oh, you’re one of _those_ guys.”

“Don’t worry, your majesty,” the Khajiit added. “J’Zargo and his fellow students will look elsewhere for humour.”

“You do that,” Acrus grunted. There. They knew there was no messing with him. Taking him for some sod that could be made fun of whenever they liked, unacceptable. You had to react quickly and decisively to that kind of behaviour, or they mocked you for the rest of your carreer.

Looking away, he resumed hugging himself and stomping his feet against the cold. Acrus and the three apprentices were standing at the edge of a hole in the earth, easily twenty metres across, in the evening twilight, freezing their toes off, the snow ankle-deep and more falling every second. Tolfdir, the man who’d blasted the unexpected fireball at Acrus, had told them to wait for him there.

His fellow students. One Nord, who looked like just about every Nord in Tamriel, rugged and square-chinned, pale-skinned and dim of intellect. A Khajiit who looked like every Khajiit in Tamriel except with longer whiskers, furry and feline, oozing untrustworthiness and deceit, and a Dunmer woman who looked like every Dunmer in Tamriel, a narrow, ashen face with perpetually angled eyebrows and a face that radiated a mixture of boredom and arrogance. He’d shared the bed with a Dunmer woman once. The woman had lain there like a dead horse. Never again.

“There’s Tolfdir,” the Dunmer woman remarked. “He’s late.”

The old man shuffled towards them through the snow, his beard swaying in the lazy breeze. “A wizard is never late,” he said. “Now then, are we all accounted for?”

“Yes,” Acrus said. “All four of us.” What a dumb question that had been.

Tolfdir shot him an irritated look, then said, “When we head into the ruins, stay close to me. This place is not free from danger, and apprentices have the unfortunate habit of being eaten by monsters or falling down chasms in the dark.”

As if a little danger scared Acrus. The wild dog that had attacked his village could testify to that. The beast had run back to its cave whining, with half its fur singed off. Acrus was sure he’d be able to manage not falling down chasms or not soiling his britches from the occasional rat of unusual size.

A ramp led into the dig site, a rickety wooden construction mounted on stilts and hammered into the edge of the excavation, making two straight turns until it reached the bottom. It wobbled as the group of five went down, but Tolfdir didn’t seem alarmed, and so, neither was Acrus. The man had probably descended that ramp many times, so he probably knew what it could take.

“J’Zargo thinks Nords and Imperials are too heavy for rickety old ramps.”

Their instructor laughed wheezily. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry. Our footing might not be as light as yours, but if this ramp can take a cart full of stones, it can carry a few lightweight students as well.”

Acrus wondered if he meant anything by the word ‘lightweight’.

“Now then,” Tolfdir said. “We’re heading into the excavation site of Saarthal, an old Nordic ruin. Before we go, is there anything I should know?”

“Such as?” the Dunmer woman asked.

“Oh, claustrophobia, achluophobia, agrizoophobia, bathophobia, things like that.”

Acrus wasn’t afraid of small spaces, the dark, wild animals, or depths, and he hoped none of his fellow students were either. He didn’t feel like getting stuck with a whimpering, paralytic sack of flesh in the throes of some phobia or other. Thankfully, all the students replied in the negative, and they reached the bottom of the dig without problems.

Tolfdir took hold of the knob of the hastily-put-together door that sealed off what looked like a cave. “Now then, we’re entering the ruins of Saarthal now. I must again ask that you stay close to me. Even you, J’Zargo. I know you’re Khajiit, but I don’t want to take the risk of having to look for your body at the bottom of a ravine.”

“J’Zargo will not stray far, promised,” the Khajiit said, in his peculiar accent. A promise from a Khajiit. Almost as valuable as a cow meat groin protector when fighting a daedroth.

“Very well, let’s go inside.”

Tolfdir opened the door, leading them into the darkness. They could see nothing apart from what was right in front of them and catching the light of the doorway leading outside. The gentle dripping of moisture from the cave walls was the only sound apart from the shuffling of the four people now inside the cave. “Brelyna”, Tolfdir said, almost invisible even at a distance of a mere two metres, “I hope you’ve done your homework?”

“I have, Master Alterer Tolfdir,” the Dunmer woman said proudly. Acrus felt the pinpricks on his skin from the magicka weave being manipulated, but where the feeling was subtle and consistent when master mages did it, the sensation on his skin was jarring and erratic when this apprentice tried. The next moment, a tiny little light rose from the Dunmer’s hands, flitting up a few centimetres before extinguishing in a feeble flicker. Acrus resisted the urge to sneer, even though no one could see him in the darkness. If this was all these students were capable of, he’d have a promising career here. Not that that wasn’t already the case.

“I... Forgive me, Master Alterer,” the woman called Brelyna stammered. “I practiced this so... uh, so many times, but...”

“It’s alright,” their instructor said gently, his voice disembodied in the darkness. “As long as you’re with me, you can make so many mistakes it makes the rocks crack. What matters is that you’ve mastered your craft when you go out there, into that great big world. Now. Take a breath and try again.”

“Yes, Master Alterer.” Acrus could actually _hear_ the woman taking a deep breath to steady herself.

“Now, gently but firmly weave the threads of magicka. Take your time. Speed comes with experience.”

There was a moment of silence and again Acrus felt the weave being manipulated, this time more slowly and with less jerky movements. It lasted for a second or three, and then an unsteadily-flickering globe of light emerged from the Dunmer’s hand, rising up with determination despite its small size and inconsistent strength. Still, it was enough to illuminate the area a few metres around them, and Acrus supposed it would do. The Illusion school had never been his area of expertise, but he figured it was decent enough for an apprentice to be able to keep a globe of light suspended in the air, even one as puny as this.

“Yes, well done,” Tolfdir praised. “Needs some more practice, but it’s a promising start.”

Pft. How was this a promising start? If Acrus had practiced the Light spell, he was certain he could do better with only a few hours of work. Of course, Illusion wasn’t his field, but still. Light was the cantrip of all cantrips.

“Shall we move on, Master Alterer?” the Nord asked. First smart thing he’d said all day.

“Yes, let’s see what these ruins hold in store for us.” As if he didn’t already know. This was an exercise, he’d hardly send them into unknown territory.

They proceeded through the dark tunnels, only slightly illuminated by Brelyna’s poor excuse for a Light spell. The walls were slick and wet, and more than once, Acrus had to wipe his hands on his robe, cursing under his breath. The robe was good for washing anyway, after the slog through the snow and slush.

“Now then,” Tolfdir said with a contented sigh. “Here we are.”

They stood in an open room where three smaller caves crossed paths. “Brelyna, since you possess the Light spell, I’ll need you to go into the east cave. The farthest we’ve gone is to a fork where the ceiling lowers. You’ll have to crawl for a bit. I need you to take this little trinket and look for anything magickal. It’s set to start vibrating when it detects magickal resonance.”

“Yes, Master Alterer,” the woman acknowledged. In the faint light of her feeble little globe, Acrus could see the apprehension. Looked like the ashface wasn’t so keen on crawling through narrow shafts.

“J’Zargo, Onmund,” Tolfdir said, “You’re coming with me. There’s a barrier I’d like you both to try your Destruction skills on.”

Both apprentices nodded.

“As for you,” Tolfdir told Acrus, “you’ll assist Arniel Gane, one of our master Conjurers, in locating magickal items. He’s in the west hallway somewhere.” He chuckled. “Hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

“Wait, wait,” Acrus protested. “I have to find my way in the _dark_?”

“What did you expect, apprentice?” the Alteration master asked. Acrus could _hear_ him smirk. “A torch? A mage has no need for something as dangerous as fire when he can just make light by using the weave. Now then, off you go.”

“You can’t be serious,” Acrus blurted out. Exploring a cave in the dark was _dangerous_. You could slip and fall, breaking a bone or five, or bang your head on the ceiling, or any other kind of potentially deadly accident could happen.

“Oh you big crybaby,” Tolfdir laughed, digging in his robes and fishing out a short rod with a gem on the end. He frowned at it, almost unnoticeably, and the big gem lit up with a pale blue light. “There you go, this should be sufficient.”

Setting his jaw, Acrus muttered a thank you. He took the rod and set off, indignant at being so talked down to. Who did this old coot think he was? Just because he’d had years and years and years to study magick didn’t mean he had licence to just humiliate him.

He navigated through the dark caves, not looking back and just grunting to himself in discontentment. Still, he resolved not to get angry, but to show everyone, both the disrespectful fellow students and the condescending teachers, that their dismissal of him was ill-placed. And he’d do it, not by shouting at them, but by studying diligently and proving them wrong. Revenge is a dish served cold, and making everyone look at their own boots in embarrassment was the best revenge he could have.

So let them kick him around. He who laughs last, laughs hardest.

Further down the corridor, he saw a faint red light illuminating the area around ten metres further. “Hello?” he carefully called out.

“Ah yes, hello,” the man who’d conjured the light called back. He sat with his back to Acrus, kneeling over something. “You must be the new apprentice. Arcus, was it?”

“Acrus. Yes, that’s me.”

“Come closer, I’ll explain what needs to be done.”

Acrus did as he was told, almost slipping on the wet cave floor when it suddenly sloped unexpectedly. “Damn this rathole,” he growled. As he did so, his foot again slipped out from under him as he put his weight on loose stones that rolled out from beneath his soles. Seemed this particular cave had just been opened.

“Quite. Now then,” the man said, standing upright. He held up a hand, showing a small circle of metal, glinting in the red light of his conjuration. “We’ve just opened this path,” he explained, “and this shows we’re on the right track.” Acrus looked closer and saw, in the faint red light, that the man was holding a ring.

“I take it that’s enchanted?” Acrus said. Of course it was. The College wouldn’t care about some stupid band of copper.

“So it is.” Arniel Gane was an old Breton, bald as a marble save for the wreath of gray hair at the back of his skull. “And where there’s one, there’s usually more. You can assist me in the search.”

A scavenger hunt? Really? _That_ was what they needed the apprentices for? Worst of all, he’d be baby-sit by this old geezer while the two male students could let themselves go against some kind of barrier, and that dark elf could search on her own. Great.

“What’s wrong, apprentice? Do you find this task beneath you?” The old wrinkled Breton was frowning at him.

“No, no, of course not,” Acrus said quickly, hiding his disgruntlement with ease. “I was... just thinking.” He had to come up with a good excuse for his frown real quick, and did so, “about how difficult it’ll be to find these items with what little light we have.”

“Ah,” the Conjurer said, all suspicion gone from his face. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to keep our eyes open, no?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any amulets that detect magickal resonance, would you?” Acrus asked hopefully.

“No, I fear Tolfdir has taken them all.” He stood thinking for a moment, his hands in his sides. For a few seconds only the drip of water from the stalactites could be heard. Then, far off, there was a distant whooshing sound, almost inaudible. Seemed like J’Zargo and Onmund were trying their best at the barrier. Why the old coot hadn’t asked Acrus with him was a mystery. Destruction was his specialty.

The red light floating around the Conjurer disappeared, and promptly appeared again as the old man renewed the spell. It took him even less effort than Tolfdir, and the light itself seemed to be more than just an illusion. Acrus could swear the glowing orb moved with determination rather than in a set pattern, or not moving at all, as light illusions often did.

“I see you’re taking an interest in my magick?”

“Uh, yes,” Acrus said. “It doesn’t move like a regular Light spell.”

“Of course not,” the man said proudly. “That’s because it’s not a spell from the school of Illusion. This is, in fact, a Conjuration. A creature summoned to provide assistance.”

“Huh. That makes sense.”

“It’s from the plane of Oblivion, but I’m not sure what it is exactly. It’s friendly enough at any rate.”

Acrus looked closely at the lazily cavorting globe of light and saw what looked to be a kind of glowing moth, only this one didn’t flap its wings. “Amazing.”

The Conjurer grinned. “Glad you think so. Now then, to work.”

“Right. I suppose we’re looking and feeling around in the dark?”

“Aye,” the Conjurer answered. “We should get to it. You start looking on the far side of the chamber. Notify me when you’ve found anything abnormal, no matter how slight.”

“Understood.” Hmph. When people wanted to be notified of every little thing, it meant they didn’t have much faith in the other’s decision making capabilities. Another insult. Holding the staff low to the ground, Acrus began searching, meticulously covering every inch both with his eyes and with his hands. It would not do to miss an item.

He kept feeling and looking around, in the dim white light of the staff, running his hands over the light beige rock.

Wait, he’d touched something. “Master Conjurer?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’ve got something.” He held the staff closer to the spot and saw a shining, multifaceted stone sticking out. “Over here.” Yep, that was definitely something.

The Conjurer came closer and sat on his knees next to him, inspecting the shiny bit. After a few seconds, he chuckled. “Sorry, son. That’s a piece of good old geode.”

“Geode?”

“Yes. You don’t know how to recognize different stones?”

Acrus felt his face get warm. “Well...”

The Conjurer chuckled and rose. “There’s a good bock on minerals in Urag gro-Shub’s library. If you have some free time after lectures, it makes for some fascinating reading.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master Conjurer,” he said meekly, inwardly irritated at the man’s smugness.

“Still, good that you notified me.”

Condescending jackass.

Redoubling his efforts, he resumed searching. As he did, his concentration gradually waned until he found himself daydreaming of home, and the one thing that had kept him there: Anorra, his golden-haired miracle. He’d been happy then. Not the brief elation one felt when achieving something, not the contentment one had when lazing in the sun on a warm afternoon, no, true happiness, the constant and heart-filling kind. He almost couldn’t remember what it was like, not wanting other women, not seeing them as fleeting conquests to either suavely woo into bed, or to get them there with a combination of a lot of wine and a little physical coercion. He’d been happy then. And his happiness had only grown when she’d accepted his marriage proposal.

A proposal for which he now cursed himself, every day. Because if there had been no proposal, there wouldn’t have been a pre-nuptial ladies’ drinking night, and Anorra wouldn’t have drunk herself into complete besottedness, and Anorra wouldn’t have drunkenly walked out into the afternoon streets of Cyrodiil, right in front of a rambling cart. She’d been dragged along by the wheels a few metres before the cart had stopped, and her drinking night had ended before the night had even fallen, her body reduced to a twisted and wrenched sack of broken bones and ruptured organs, a trail of blood and puke and shit behind her on the cobblestones.

Every time he treated a girl less well than he should, he simply told himself that if what happened to Anorra was meant to happen, then so was what he did to them. Gods weren’t the only ones who could play that game.

He became aware of a tickling sensation on his cheek and wiped the tear away. As he replaced his hand, a metal object pricked into it, driving the leaden thoughts from his head. Before calling out, he brought the staff closer, making sure it wasn’t just another geode. He had no intention of being seen as a moron twice in one hour.

The thing that stuck out was a blue and gold object, partially sunken into the stone. This was worth calling to the Conjurer for.

“Master Conjurer! Not a geode this time.”

The man shuffled over to him, and his red moth-like light illuminated the object even better. “Oh dear me,” he said quietly. “Not a geode indeed.” He took a closer look.

“It looks like... an amulet?” Acrus dared to venture.

“Yes. Yes indeed. Stay here, I’ll go get Tolfdir. Don’t touch that thing, you never know what kind of accidents can happen.”

“Of course, I’ll sit tight,” Acrus said. He had, of course, no intention of doing so. As the Conjurer shuffled off to find his fellow old coot, Acrus extended his hand toward the item again. Its edges looked pretty sharp, but not sharp enough to cause injuries, and when he held his fingertips closer, the barely perceptible feeling of magickal energy brushed his skin, like the wispy threads of a spider’s web carried on the wind.

He brought his fingertips even closer, and now he clearly felt the resonance, the threads of energy undulating out of it. He concentrated on the patterns made by the wildly emanating threads and with pure focus and mental willpower, made them align, twist around each other, and become a bundled cord of pure energy, the cord tightening and strengthening until –

A flash of white blasted through Acrus, knocking him flat on his behind. Everything, including thought, became a blur as he flailed around for a handhold, drunkenly snatching at the air. His hearing was gone, and his sight only registered the blurry and doubled light of the staff he’d dropped.

“Hey! Are you alright?”

Acrus tried to speak, but his mouth only produced unintelligible, slack-jawed babble.

“Some sort of backlash. Hey! Can you hear me?”

The voices came from far away, and when Acrus slowly and drunkenly turned his head, he saw the red moth-like light fly through a crack in the wall, circle around his head a few times, then fly back.

Clarity slowly came back to him, and the ringing in his ears and spinning of his vision lessened. What in Oblivion had happened?

“Can you hear me, boy?”

Tolfdir’s voice. A mixture of concerned and annoyed. Heh, probably because he’d succeeded in manipulating that amulet and stolen the old man’s moment of grandstanding. “I c... an hear you,” Acrus slurred.

“I thought I told you to leave it alone?” the Conjurer’s voice came from the same direction.

“We would... still be living in a world without... magick if we all listened to the people... telling us to be careful,” Acrus said, paraphrasing his old mentor. It only got him a disapproving grunt in return.

“Can you stand?” Tolfdir asked.

Acrus tried, fell back down on his ass, and tried again, with more success this time. The disorientation was mostly gone now, and he felt himself more able to think and act straight. “What’s... did the walls cave in?”

“So they did,” Tolfdir said. Acrus only now realized the old coot couple were speaking through a small crack between the fallen boulders. Oh no, was he trapped in here? It would take hours, if not days, to dig him out.

“Wait, I’m not... trapped, am I?”

“From the looks of it, you are.”

Acrus felt warmth rush to his head and his heartbeat quickened. Oh no, no, no. Don’t let him be trapped.

“Calm down, boy,” Tolfdir admonished him. “You’ve freed the amulet from the stone. If it can move walls once, it can do it again. Go on, put it on.”

Still rattled from the blast, Acrus gingerly let the amulet’s chain go over his head and around his neck.

“Good, now reach out to it.”

Acrus did so, trying to identify the currents of magicka emanating from the amulet, and direct them into a powerful and focused force. The threads whipped and writhed and he had the greatest difficulty to keep them under control, but he didn’t give up, and eventually, the energies bent to his will, again coiling around each other to form a focused and directed energy.

Without thinking, operating purely on feeling, Acrus directed the amulet’s magick towards a nearby wall.

With a blinding flash of light, the wall blew apart, debris flying away from the blast. One sharp fragment of rock went only a hair length past his head.

“Yes, well done!” Tolfdir cheered. “I believe that explosion just uncovered a previously inaccessible section of the ruins.”

The hole made by the amulet was big enough to both open the way back to the others, and to reveal a previously unexplored section of the ruins.

Tolfdir laboriously squeezed in between the fallen rubble. “Come, let’s go further in. This is _fascinating_.”

The students followed, but Arniel Gane remained behind. “Master Alterer, I’ll return to the College, send word of what’s going on. It might be dangerous and the College needs to know where we are. I’ll return as quickly as possible.”

“Very well Arniel. Be careful.”

“I believe that advice is best extended towards you rather than me,” the bald man said with a grin. With that, he turned and walked back to the entrance, his red moth-light dancing around his head.

Tolfdir seemed inclined to let Acrus lead, and Acrus knew better than to let such a chance go to waste. He stepped towards the newly-created opening, and as his foot first set down on the floor of a newly-revealed cave, an apparition appeared, just forming out of thin air!

“You have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped,” the apparition intoned. It looked like an Altmer wizard of some sort, but Acrus couldn’t make it out, nailed to the ground as he was. The apparition was looking straight at him. “Judgment will be passed based on your actions to come and how you fare against the dangers ahead. We pass this warning onto you because the Psijic order believes in you, and because you alone have the potential to prevent disaster.” With that, the ghost winked out of existence.

“Son, are you alright?” Tolfdir’s hoarse voice brought him back to reality.

“Did you... did you see that?” Acrus breathed. “The... the ghost, or manifestation or... whatever it was?”

“No,” Tolfdir said. “I haven’t seen anything.” He looked back at the students, who all shook their heads.

“It... spoke to me. Told me about some kind of danger ahead, and the Psijic order believing in me...”

“That’s... odd,” Tolfdir said. “There’s no known connections between the Psijic order and these ruins. No one has even seen them in ages.”

The old coot didn’t believe him! “Well it was there and it spoke to me!” Acrus snapped.

“Settle down, son,” Tolfdir quickly backed down. “I didn’t say I doubted you. Just that it was odd. Perhaps we should look for answers deeper in the ruins?”

“Maybe.”

The corridor went on, twisting and winding its way underground. This looked like a natural cave, used as part of the complex because it had already been there when the place was hewn out of the stone.

“Look, Master Alterer,” the Dunmer woman said, pointing forward. “Over there.”

Acrus could make it out too, it was a throne of some sort, and someone was sitting on it. Surely whoever was still here would be long dead?

They carefully came closer, and as they did, Acrus saw he was right. The body sitting on the throne was a desiccated, lifeless corpse, decayed to the point of being nothing more than wires of mummified flesh stretched over a skeleton.

“Intriguing,” Brelyna remarked, “yet highly disturbing.”

“Well,” Tolfdir remarked. “It seems we’ve found Jyrik Gauldurson.”

“Jyrik who?” the Khajiit asked.

“Gauldurson,” the Nord apprentice clarified. “You’re a student in the College and you’ve never heard the name Gauldurson?”

“I... eh... should I have?” the Khajiit asked. Apparently he should have, yes.

“Jyrik Gauldurson was one of the three sons of Lord Gauldur, the erstwhile Archmage of the College of Winterhold,” Onmund explained, then stopped himself. “Ah, but... of course Master Alterer Tolfdir can tell the story better than I can?” Slimy toad.

“No, no,” the old man said. “Go ahead, you’re doing fine.”

“Oh, thank you, Master Alterer.” The Nord cleared his throat and went on. “Jyrik Gauldurson was the first to discover his father’s power, a mysterious amulet, and he and his two brothers fought each other, coveting – ”

“Master Alterer!” the Dunmer exclaimed, “Look! By the Nine!”

All heads whipped in the direction Brelyna had pointed and all of them felt their breaths stall in their throats. The mummified husk of a man, that had once been Jyrik Gauldurson, slowly gripped the arms of the throne and pulled itself to its feet.

“No time for history, my boy,” Tolfdir commanded, bringing his staff up. “I doubt this thing is friendly.”

“But, but...” Acrus stammered. “Surely he’s dead? How does he even move?”

“It’s a draugr,” Onmund breathed.

“A what?”

“A draugr,” Tolfdir repeated. “Restless dead of Nord myth. It would seem they’re more than a myth after all, now get ready to take it down!”

“Take it down? How did you kill someone who was already dead?” The thing stood fully erect now, and its head turned towards them.

“You set it on fire until there’s nothing left but ash,” Tolfdir shouted, and with that, raised his staff. A searing bolt of fire shot out, catching the walking corpse right in the chest... but to no effect.

“This thing is invulnerable,” Acrus heard the Khajiit exclaim behind him. “We should run!”

“Stand ground!” Tolfdir ordered. “We’re mages of the College. This foe is a test and you are about to pass or fail!”

“Look out!” Brelyna shouted, throwing herself against Acrus and Onmund, her meagre weight striking with enough force to knock them out of the way of the murderously sharp ice shard the draugr had just sent towards them. Tolfdir, too, jerked his head out of the way in time, and the shard cracked apart on the cave wall. “Hit it!” the old man shouted. “Direct your magicka toward it!”

Easier said than done. Acrus, from his position on the floor, attempted to direct the energies around him into a firebolt spell, but as he concentrated on the weave, a blast of icy cold air struck him and he had to grit his teeth to bite the cold and pain, his muscles contracting and cramping in pain. The next moment, he heard the thing’s voice, a dry, rattling croak. It shouted something, and the next moment, the Khajiit was lifted off his feet and propelled several metres back, smacking into the stone wall behind him.

Brelyna and Onmund did get their spells off, Onmund zapping the thing in the chest with a bolt of electricity and Brelyna erecting a shoddy and flimsy ward, that immediately fell apart when another shard of ice shattered itself against it.

Acrus again tried to channel the magickal energies, bundling them in his mind’s eye to make for an acidic spray, but as he did so, he saw the threads of magicka, blackened and bleeding dark energy, flailing out of the corpse, toward a green orb on a pedestal a few feet behind him.

“The orb!” he shouted. “The orb’s powering it!”

Tolfdir wasted no time and telekinetically lifted a large chunk of stone, sending it flying towards the green orb. The stone struck true, shattering the green crystal, and Acrus saw the blackened tendrils of magicka being severed, and wrapping themselves around the draugr like twisting, spasming snakes.

“Hit it with everything you’ve got!” Tolfdir shouted.

Acrus again bundled the threads of magicka around him, his and his fellows’ vibrant and alive unlike the draugr’s black, oozing tentacles, and with his willpower, made them turn acidic and sent them lashing out at the enemy. A green spray of acid hit the draugr in the face and it howled, staggering backward. It recovered and shouted again, “FUS... RO DAH!” and now Acrus felt himself being buffeted by a tremendous force, lifted off his feet and thrown several metres further. He felt his ribs crack as his body smacked hard into the cave wall, and pain exploded in his chest. Numbed by the blow, he could only look on as Onmund blew a large chunk out of the creature’s chest with another flash of electricity, and finally Tolfdir set it ablaze with a jet of roaring fire, turning the thing into a roaring, flailing pillar of flame that staggered a few steps, then fell over on the cave floor, burning as it went.

They all fell silent for a moment, concentrated on the pile of carbonized, smouldering draugr, to be sure it wouldn’t rise again.

“I think that’s the last we’ll see of Jyrik Gauldurson,” the young Nord remarked.

“Let us hope so,” Tolfdir agreed. “Is anyone injured?”

“J’Zargo got a little shaken and rattled, but no bones broken,” the Khajiit groaned, rising from the floor.

“You seem like you weren’t so lucky,” the Dunmer said, coming to stand over Acrus with a grin. Acrus looked up at her and didn’t find it all that much to grin about. Every breath he took sent excruciating pain through his ribcage.

She kneeled beside him and asked, “trouble breathing?”

Acrus couldn’t help but nod.

“Broken ribs, most likely.” She cocked her head at him. “I know a few simple Restoration spells. Nothing impressive but it might take the worst of the pain away?”

“By all means,” Acrus grunted. It wasn’t a time to be proud or refuse help. He was hurting, quite a lot.

The Dunmer nodded and put her hands on his chest. White light dimly faded in and out of existence, and he could feel his pain lessen. The ribs weren’t healed, nowhere near it, but the pain was less, and that was a lot already.

“We should get him to Master Restorer Marence as soon as possible,” Brelyna said to Tolfdir, who was busily sifting through the ashes of what was once Jyrik Gauldurson. He held up a shiny object, inspecting it, and then said, “Yes, we should. Is he badly injured?”

“Not fatal, I think,” Brelyna said back, “but certainly serious.”

“Very well, let’s go then. I think we can all use a cup of mead.”

“Master Alterer?” the Nord asked, pointing at the wall. “What’s this?”

The wall was polished to a flat surface, and etched with all kinds of markings, always in groups of two or three. One group seemed to have threads of magickal energy contained in it, but even in his injured state, Acrus could see that whatever the energy was, it wasn’t like the magick they commanded, and it was probably useless to them. It required a different conduit than a mage.

Tolfdir had established the same. “This, Onmund, is something we will never understand or be able to use. It’s an ancient power, and it waits for someone other than us.”

“Huh,” was all Onmund had to say.

“Master Alterer,” Brelyna insisted. “We should get him to the Master Restorer. My spell won’t hold for very long.”

“Yes,” Tolfdir said. “We should go. I’ll return later, but I think we’ve already found the most important thing.” He held up the amulet, then looked at Acrus. “And I think this belongs with you.”

****  
  



	15. Roë: Awakening

  **ROË**

**Awakening**

**Past Volunruud**

 

As she plodded on, Roë caught herself wishing she’d said no when Isran had asked her if she was well enough to travel. Her fever was breaking out badly, sending her into bouts of shaking and chills, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. Still it was only a fever and she’d had worse. Frostfire, she’d even walked an entire double-shift when ill with bowel wrench. As draining as this fever was, at least it didn’t cause her to dash for the bushes every half hour.

She’d passed the landmark Tolan had pointed out on her map, an old Dwemer ruin called Volunruud, and now she was skirting a mountain, following its thin path upward. Higher up, on the far side of the mountain, should be Dimhollow Crypt, the place the vampires had been investigating. Tolan the Vigilant would probably already have arrived, having left a day before her. Even his stop at the Hall of the Vigilants for cremations couldn’t have set him back more than half a day. Bah, cremations. What a waste. It was still thawing, so she couldn’t check the snow for trails, since most of it was gone anyway. No need. The man had said he’d be there, so he’d be there.

Her thoughts briefly strayed to Solitude. She wondered what the guardchief would say when he saw her and Kunod’s letters of resignation on his desk. Three squad chiefs out of six, gone. One dead, two off to join the Dawnguard.

There would be a lot of room for promotions at least.

She pushed the image of Gethor, drained as if by an enormous spider, out of her head and walked on, not intimidated by the long drop beside the path. Maybe a mouth-breathing Redguard would stumble off the path and be swallowed by the gaping crevices, but not Roë. She made good progress despite her fever, coming around the mountain in record time. Again she wondered if Durak hadn’t been wrong about her fever, because come on, it was a huge coincidence that she got ill right after being attacked by vampires, but there was no point worrying about it. He’d said it wasn’t sanguinare, and he probably knew what he was talking about.

Tucked away between two jutting spikes of rock was a cave mouth. That was probably it, then. Dimhollow Crypt. She unsheathed her sword and took the crossbow she’d been given before leaving Fort Dawnguard in her other hand, listening if she could hear anything inside the cave. Her keen Bosmer ears didn’t let her down. Voices, two of them. Maybe Tolan had brought a friend, but somehow she doubted it. She quietly crept inside, swallowed by the darkness.

Torches flickered into a large opening at the end of the passage, and hidden behind a stalagmite, she saw two figures standing in the dim torchlight. Another figure lay prone, and Roë immediately recognized the robes.

Damn it, they’d gotten to him first.

“The Vigilant put up a fight,” one of the men said to the other, his voice slightly nervous. “Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him.”

“They don’t seem to know when to give up,” the other said, much calmer. “And now they’re dead. Now be quiet, all this talk is making me hungry. We better get another one of those hardhead Vigilants wandering in soon.”

They were vampires alright. Roë inaudibly shifted her balance to her other leg.

“I hope we find what we’re looking for quickly. And I think we should report to Lord Harkon instead of – ”

The other’s voice took on a threatening edge. “Do you, fledgling? Do you? Perhaps I should tell Lokil of your disloyalty?”

Who in the blazes were Harkon and Lokil? Probably vampire high-ups, Roë made a mental note of the names.

“No, no,” the fledgling quickly protested. “I was just saying – ”

“Be quiet.”

The fledgling followed his master’s order and shut up. Roë waited for the moment when they were both looking in another direction, and then brought her crossbow to bear between two stalagmites, taking careful aim at the more confident vampire. Ignoring the shakes of her fever, she centred the iron sights on his heart and pulled the lever.

With a loud _clack_ , the crossbow let fly, the bolt catching the vampire dead centre in the chest, impaling his heart. He staggered back several steps, then slumped down against the cave wall.

The fledgling was flat-footed by his master’s slaying, and Roë took advantage of the moment to leap out from her hiding place and drop her crossbow, leaping towards him in four quick bounds, bringing the tip of her shortsword down into his chest. She felt the ribs crunch as her blade plunged into his ribcage, snapping the sternum and punching through the heart it protected. The fledgling clawed at the blade, his jaw wide open in a silent scream, the fangs clearly visible. Roë let out a grunt as she gave the blade a last push, severing the vampire’s spinal column and finishing him off. He fell to the ground without a sound.

Tolan was dead, not drained like Gethor had been, but felled by a hard blow to the head, which had caved in his skull. Like the vampires had said, he’d put up a fight. As painful as his death might have been, it would be nowhere near as horrible as what they’d done to Gethor, drunk off his feet and unable to fight back.

She rifled through both of the beasts’ pockets, finding a gold piece or two and some kind of spell scroll. She wasn’t a fan of spell scrolls, so she just stuffed it in her bag to sell later.

But then her eye fell on her own arm. Oh crap.

The fledgling hadn’t just clawed at her blade. On her forearm, she saw two red welts making a double crescent. They weren’t particularly deep, but they were ragged and doubtless full of filth. Now her fever didn’t matter anymore. If a vampire clawed you, you needed to get your ass to a temple or a healer as soon as possible. But, she recalled Isran telling her, you usually had a day or two before the rather easily curable sanguinare turned into full-blown vampirism. Dawnstar wasn’t too far off, if she didn’t linger here, she could be there within twenty-four hours. Plenty of time.

She picked up her crossbow and slung it on her back. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about.

She quietly opened the door the two vampires had been guarding, sneaking inside. She wasn’t all that good at sneaking, at least for a Bosmer, but by Wood Elf standards, ‘not very good at sneaking’ was still quiet as a mouse to other races.

“Now, _brother_ Adalvald,” a cruel voice rang out below the ledge she found herself on. She sneaked forward and looked down to see a vampire in antiquated noble garb stand over a man in the same dress as Tolan, trying to get to his feet. “I’m listening?”

The fallen Vigilant spat out a wad of blood. He’d been severely injured, looking tortured even, his nose broken and several teeth knocked out, his fingers looking like crumpled sausages even as he tried to support himself on them.

“I will tell you nothing, Lokil. My oath to Stendarr is more powerful than all the pain you can inflict on me.”

The vampire standing over the Vigilant crossed his arms and said, “I believe you, Vigilant. And I don’t think you could tell me even if you were inclined to.” He leaned in, bringing his face closer to his victim’s. “I don’t think you even _know_ what you’ve found here.”

Before Roë could react, the vampire brought his fist down in a terrible punch, snapping Adalvald’s neck with superhuman strength and sending him to the ground, this time for good. With a snarl, Roë came to her feet and leapt down to the cave floor below, landing in front of the vampire called Lokil.

But this one wasn’t as easily surprised as the others had been, side-stepping her downward slash and parrying the next blow with his arm, oblivious to the fact that it bit deep into the skin of his forearm. Roë kicked out, pushing the vampire away with her foot and bringing her blade to bear again, going straight for his heart in an explosive forward thrust.

Again the vampire dodged the attack, and with a quick movement, he threw his weight against Roë, shoulder-tackling her into the wall. Roë’s teeth clacked together as her back smacked against the cave wall, but she was able to roll out of the way as the vampire’s fist pistoned out at her to pound her face into mush. The blow went straight into the cave wall, its sheer force sending chips of stone flying away.

Prone, Roë saw her opening and she thrust upward, the tip of her blade sliding up into the creature’s abdomen, through his diaphragm and inside his ribcage, impaling him on the spear made by her sword and her arms. Lokil snarled and flailed his arms, but she’d got him in the heart, and all he had left in him were his death throes.

He fell forward, and Roë let him fall to her side, pulling her shortsword out of his body. So much for Isran thinking this place wasn’t important. Whoever this Lokil character had been, he seemed to have quite a bit of clout. Well. To have _had_ quite a bit of clout. He was dead now. Just like everyone else apart from her. She tore Lokil’s cloak off his body and used it to cover Adalvald’s upper body and face. Wasn’t much more she could do in this cave.

But what had they found? Roë looked around the cave and saw another passage, heading deeper inside. Maybe whatever it was the Vigilant had found was in there. Had to be. This room of the cave was empty apart from two dead bodies and a few oversized mushrooms. If there had been other vampires here, they surely would have been drawn to the ruckus, but still, it never hurt to be safe. She loaded a new bolt in her crossbow, something she should have done straight away, but she wasn’t used to having one at her side yet, and sneaked through the cave mouth into the next room.

This place was far bigger than the ones before, with a dome as high as six or seven men, and in the middle a ring of columns that supported stone arches, some of which had already fallen apart. The stone was a kind of purple-veined marble, and sconces burned with a strange bluish light, in a circle concentric with the pillars to form a ring of lights. In the circle formed by the pillars, the floor was white marble, with thin, shallow purple trenches pulled in it, forming some kind of pattern. All the sconces were lit, and they seemed to have been moved along those trenches, judging from the scrape marks and the prints in the dust. Had the vampires and Vigilants been fighting over this cave just to see who got to rearrange the furniture?

In the middle of the circle stood a stone pedestal, about half a man high, made of the same strange purplish marble, with a kind of stone mushroom head on top. Roë carefully approached it, on her guard for whatever kind of trap the thing might have on it. Her boots ticked quietly on the marble as she came closer. She didn’t sense any traps, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. These ancient ruins type places often still had wards in place to stop or even destroy intruders.

Most of the time, though, magical traps emitted a faint energy, that felt like very light static electricity when you held your hand close to them, as if tiny threads caressed your palm. Roë carefully held her hand over the demi-globe on top of the pedestal, but she felt no energies or disturbances. Slowly she came closer and closer until her hand almost touched the orb.

A _clack_ sounded and something flashed upwards and down again, pain exploding in Roë’s hand. She yelped and drew back, clutching her hand, feeling warm blood run down her fingers. As she opened her hand to see the damage, she realized the thing, the spike, whatever it was, had gone all the way through, making a slit-shaped hole about three centimetres in length. What kind of trap was this? Poison? Doubtful, since any poison would have lost its potency after so long, and people clever enough to trap their secret places would know that. What then? Just a means to scare potential thieves away?

Damn it, her hand hurt. She quickly fished a bandage from her pack with her uninjured hand, and bound the wound as well as she was able. The spike hadn’t severed anything, so it’d just be a painful and bothersome wound. Now she knew why explorers always used their left hand to feel for traps if they were right-handed. Still, what was the point of this? Surely any grave robber wouldn’t be scared away by a stab in the palm? Still holding her throbbing hand, she looked at the pedestal and saw a drop of her blood slowly trickle downwards until it had shed so much of its mass in its trail that it simply ceased to be subject to gravity’s pull.

The ground shook, only a single little bump. “Whoa,” Roë heard herself breathe as she staggered backward. There was another tremor, followed by a series of metallic bangs below the marble she was standing on. Then came the sound of stone grating on stone, and as she looked on, wide-eyed, the pedestal rose up from the ground, pushed upwards by a thick stone cylinder, higher than Roë’s head. She let go of her punctured hand and used it to grab the hilt of her shortsword, painful as it was to hold it. With her left hand, she kept her crossbow aimed at the cylinder.

Wait, it wasn’t really a cylinder, it was more shaped as a container... no, not a container either. As an upright sarcophagus. Was this a burial place then? Maybe an ancient noble or hero buried with an artefact that the vampires wanted... or they didn’t want the Vigilants to have? Or vice versa?

Roë swallowed, her left shoulder starting to tremble from the effort of holding the crossbow up, but she didn’t lower it. There was no telling what kind of things could come from a sarcophagus. She’d heard of the ancient Nord dead guarding their ruins as so-called Draugr. It was all rumours and she’d never seen them for herself, but better to be careful in a place like this. Though, did a crossbow really work against a walking dead? It wasn’t like with Vampires, those could be destroyed with a heartshot because... well, probably because their heart still pumped blood, even though they were dead? She’d have to ask Isran about that when she got back to Fort Dawnguard.

There was a loud grating of stone on stone and slowly, the door of the sarcophagus swung open.

Roë gripped the handle of her crossbow tightly, even as her shoulder muscle burned, and clenched her injured hand around the grip of her sword. This time she didn’t feel the pain.

What was in the sarcophagus was not a decayed long-dead body, and not a walking corpse either. The body that was entombed inside didn’t look like it was long dead. In fact, it looked completely untouched by decay, or even discolouration. They must have just stuck her in there not long before Roë arrived. But who? The Vigilants? Doubtful. The vampires? Also not very likely.

The dead body slowly began falling forward, and on an impulse, Roë dropped her weapons and stepped forward, catching the body as it fell.

The eyes moved behind their closed eyelids.

With a yelp, Roë jumped backward and let the body drop onto the marble. It came down without much grace, flopping down on the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Frostfire, they’d buried her alive!

“Are you... are you alright?” Roë heard herself stammer. Oh cack, she’d dropped the poor thing. She knelt by her to see if she could help. “Hey, are you hurt?”

The woman let out a groan and turned her face to Roë. She was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Her features were delicate and noble-looking, her skin smooth and immaculate, and light as white polished marble. Her brown hair was braided and tied back on top, and flowing free down the lower part of her head. Even with her eyes closed and looking half asleep, she was clearly breathtaking.

Trickling down her forehead, past her nose, over her upper lip and into her mouth, was a single gleaming, thin, fresh streak of blood.

She opened her eyes and Roë got a good look at them. What she saw made her recoil in alarm. The sclera of her eyes were black obsidian, and her irises were bright red coals.

She sprang upright and pointed her crossbow at the woman-thing’s face. “Don’t move!” She’d seen how strange Vampires’ eyes could be, but these looked like terrible, amplified versions of them. If she was a Vampire, she was probably very powerful. Or very ill. Or very mutated. Or very cast out.

Gah, it was pointless trying to make sense of it, every guess was as good and as bad as the other. All she could do was hold her crossbow steady and hope she hadn’t made a deadly mistake by not pulling the lever.

The fallen woman-thing wearily flapped her hand at Roë. “Put that thing down, sweetheart, I’m not gonna eat you.”

Well, it spoke, at least. Speaking was always better than clawing or biting. But maybe she was simply out of strength and waiting for Roë to drop her guard. “Who are you?”

The presumed vampire let her hand slap back down on the marble in tired resignation to Roë’s crossbow and pushed herself up so she sat upright on her backside. Roë felt herself twitch with every of her movements, expecting her to snarl and lunge, but she didn’t. “So. What year is it?” she asked casually.

“Uh... two hundred and one of the fourth era.”

Her eyes of terrible beauty went wide in surprise. “Fourth era?”

“Uh... yeah.”

She looked like Roë had spoken to her in Akaviri. “So was there a first and a second and a third era?”

“Well... yeah.” What in Oblivion was going on here? She shifted her crossbow to the other hand, but the woman-thing didn’t seem to notice or care.

She still sat there on her behind, looking puzzled. “Wow.”

“Who _are_ you?” Roë commanded again.

The woman-thing looked up at her. “Oh. You mean, you released me and you don’t know who I am?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Roë snapped, her nerves still taut.

“Right.” Roë’s hand gripped the wooden handle of the crossbow even more tightly. The whole relaxed aloofness could be just an act, meaning for her to drop her guard. “No wonder you dropped me on the head.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” But not really.

She rubbed the back of her head, still sitting on her rear, with her elbows on her knees. “Not really a proper way to treat a lady, is it?”

Roë pushed the crossbow a little closer to her. “I am _not_ going to ask again.”

“Ask what again?”

“Who _are_ you?”

The woman-thing let out a little laugh, that sounded clear as spring water. “I thought you weren’t gonna ask again?”

“Answer me, damn it.”

The red-eyed woman cocked her head at Roë, her face intrigued. Either she considered it all pretty amusing, or she was intent on keeping up her act. “Name’s Serana, dear. Now can you please put the crossbow down? It’s not really something you need for a civilised conversation.”

Roë hesitated.

“Come on, stop being silly. I said I wasn’t gonna eat you.” She had a peculiar way of speaking, abbreviating ‘going to’ to ‘gonna’. Roë had never heard it being done before.

“You’re not going to try anything, are you?” Roë asked, even though she knew the question itself was completely and utterly stupid.

“I’m hungry enough to gobble you down whole,” she said, “but no. It’s kinda improper to eat your liberators, isn’t it?”

“You... eat people?”

She laughed. “It’s a figure of speech, dear. No, I usually settle for a few mouthfuls of blood. It’s a rather unpleasant affair, but it’s either that or starving.” When she saw Roë’s crossbow going up again, she reassured, “I already said I wasn’t gonna eat you, didn’t I?” She elegantly let the tip of her tongue brush past her upper lip, over the thin streak of blood that had run down next to her nose. “Even though you taste real nice, it has to be said.”

“But you are a Vampire?”

“Well... yeah. Obviously. Don’t worry, we’re not all mindless savages. Some of us are actually capable of friendly conversation, imagine that.”

Roë took a breath and, even though she knew it might be the last mistake of her life, lowered the crossbow.

“There we go.” She extended her hand. “Care to help a lady to her feet?”

She was pushing it now. “No funny business, okay?”

“Don’t worry, I don’t have enough of a crowd to start being funny.”

Roë swallowed and took the woman-thing’s cold, pale hand. She realized she’d never actually touched a Vampire before. Skin-to-skin, at least. She felt surprisingly normal, if ice cold. The cold fingers gently but firmly wrapped around her hand and Roë pulled the woman to her feet.

“Phew. This is a little more dignified, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

The Vampire swept the dust off her clothes even though there wasn’t any on them. It was a peculiar ensemble she was wearing, somewhat anachronistic. Tall, elegant boots and a bodice with corset included, modest cleavage that looked feminine without being crass, and a short cape draped over her shoulders. The entire outfit looked made of soft burgundy leather, at least, as far as Roë could see in the yellow flickering of the sconces around her. Slung on her back, she had a long, thin white cylinder. “So, I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

“Mm, what?” Roë was still nervous, ready to reach for her shortsword the second the Vampire tried anything.

“You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Oh. Right.” She supposed there was no harm in telling her. “It’s Roë.”

“Huh. Kinda fits you, I suppose.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“So. What time of day is it?”

“Around dusk, I think.”

“Mm. Convenient.” The Vampire looked around the cave room. “Any idea how to get out of here? Come to think of it, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

A fever-shake went through Roë. “This is Dimhollow Crypt, in Skyrim. About a day’s walk from Dawnstar.”

“Skyrim... oh yeah, up North. I have no idea what Dawnstar is though. City, I assume?”

“Uh... more like a village. But yes.”

She looked around the cave one more time. “Hey look, I need to find my father. Being weak as a kitten, I probably wouldn’t be able to make the journey alone. Would you mind coming with me?”

The very question was ridiculous. If she didn’t know there were four eras, that meant she was insanely old. There was no chance her father would still be alive.

Serana seemed to have picked up on it. “Don’t worry. He won’t die of old age. He’s a Vampire, like me. Well, not _quite_ like me.”

“Still. I have no idea how many years it’s been since you were uh... sealed away, I suppose, but I’m guessing a _lot_. So your father – ”

She smiled. “Don’t worry. He isn’t just any old Vampire. He’ll still be around.”

Maybe, maybe not. But she was here on behalf of the Dawnguard, and she would bring whatever she found – or whoever she found – to them first. They were Vampire killers, true, but they’d doubtless see that this one was peaceful. Who knew, maybe they could learn stuff from her. Surely they wouldn’t be so fanatical as to refuse even talking to her? Still, telling her she was being brought back to a fort full of Vampire killers might make her slightly uncooperative, so Roë simply said, “Sure, but I need to make a stop first, report to the people who sent me.”

“Oh. That far from here?”

“Not really. Day or two.”

She shrugged. “After all these years, I’m sure a day or two won’t matter.”

Oh cack, she’d forgotten about something. “We uh... need to make a beeline for Dawnstar first, though.”

“Sure. One more day won’t matter either. What are we doing there?”

Without words, Roë showed her the claw marks on her forearm.

“I see. Would it be terribly inappropriate right now to tell you that being a Vampire isn’t all that bad?” Surprisingly, there was no gloating or cruelty in her voice. She was simply asking the question.

“How can it not be that bad?”

She shrugged again. “It’s what you make of it. You can be all sulky and pity yourself for being no longer a creature of the light,” she gestured overdramatically, “or you can see the good in it, and adapt. It’s really not that bad if you can deal with it the right way.”

“Yeah, um, I still don’t feel like becoming a Vampire, thanks.”

“Your choice. But if you’ve caught porphyric haemophilia, I suggest we don’t waste any time.”

Wait, what did she say? “Porfi- _what_?”

Serana looked puzzled at the question. “Porphyric haemophilia, the disease that causes vampirism?”

“I thought that was called sanguinare vampiris?”

She made a face. “’Sanguinare vampiris’? What kinda stupid name is that. Anyway, doesn’t matter.” She reached out and grabbed Roë’s arm, pulling it towards her with her cold, dead fingers. She looked intently at the wound, and spoke the words Roë dreaded to hear. “See the pale tendrils emanating from the wound? You’ve caught it alright. If you’d rather not become one of us, we should get going.” She let go of Roë’s arm, somewhat reluctantly. It must be strange to have dead fingers and lay them on a body warm with life.

“I uh... I was told you usually have around a day or two until the disease progresses to an untreatable stage.”

“It depends.”

Roë’s heart beat harder in her chest. “On?”

Serana was still rather casual about the whole thing. “On who infected you, on your susceptibility to disease, things like that.”

“Then... we need to get moving, right?”

She nodded.

It was twilight when they emerged from Dimhollow Crypt, and a cold wind had started blowing from the North. That meant colder weather and possibly snow, even in spring. It didn’t matter. The snow wouldn’t be here before tomorrow, so it wouldn’t slow their progress to Dawnstar. Roë hoped to the Nine that there was a healer there. Sanguinare was supposedly a very easy disease to cure in its early stages, but that didn’t make any difference if there was no one there that could brew a simple potion or cast a single Restoration spell. But this kind of thinking didn’t help anyone. Even in this season, the road to Dawnstar was treacherous and slow-going, sometimes even snowed in.

“Which way?”

“Mm?”

“Which way?” Serana asked again. “To this Dawnstar place.”

Roë unrolled her map with shaking fingers. Damn it, this fever was going to make everything worse. “It’s uh... this path down the mountain again, and then Northeast.”

“Alright, I’ll follow you. Think we can get there by morning?”

“We better.”

“Don’t mind if I share that sentiment.”

They began walking, taking the path down the mountain. Going was slower than Roë hoped, mostly because Serana looked completely and utterly exhausted and weakened. You’d be worn out for less. Because if she hadn’t even heard of the division between eras, she must be – Roë quickly did the math in her head – over two thousand years old. It could be an act, but she doubted it. What would the point be, after all?

They’d reached the foot of the mountain. “It’s Northeast now, across the plateau. Terrain should get easier in a bit. The weather, not so much.”

“Ah yes. That beautiful Skyrim weather I’ve always heard so much about.”

“Yeah. _That_ beautiful Skyrim weather. Think you’ll make it that far?” _And fast enough?_

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” she said fiercely. “Starving though.”

“So long as you don’t try anything on me,” Roë told her.

She looked amused. “I already said it’d be really rude of me to feed from the one who freed me, didn’t I?”

“As if manners would stop you if you’re hungry enough.”

“Ah, see,” she said, wagging her finger, “that’s the prejudices you should get over, if you don’t mind my saying so.” This whole thing still seemed to amuse her. Roë supposed that seeing the humour in everything came with the territory when you were crazy old and didn’t have too many worries apart from catching an unexpected crossbow bolt to the heart. “Just because we drink blood, doesn’t mean we can’t be civilised about it.”

“Tell that to the bastards who killed my friend and tried to drain me. They were more animal than man.”

She put her hands in her sides. “Ah yes. Not all of us are well-mannered. From what I can remember before I was locked away, there was a disturbing increase in brutes.”

“Brutes?”

“Yeah, the beastly types you described. My father would say they are defective pigs who have forgotten the nobility of their bloodline and act like savages.”

It was a discussion best left alone for now, because Roë was worried that if she told Serana about the Dawnguard, she’d balk at coming back with her – and the Dawnguard would want to see her, she was pretty certain of that. Imagine the things they could learn from her. Vampires in themselves were mysterious enough, so mysterious in fact that most people doubted they even existed, so finding one they could talk with and ask questions to would be invaluable. If all the vampires had been like her, Roë suspected there wouldn’t have been any need for a Dawnguard in the first place. Who knows, this woman, or woman-thing, or whatever she was, might be instrumental in finding a way to get the Vampires off everyone’s backs.

As they walked on, the clouds opened up and showed a starry sky. Some people said they could make out the signs that were on some of the doomstones by looking at the stars, but Roë wasn’t that interested in astronomy. Especially now.

And yet, there was something in the night sky. The stars seemed to shift and multiply and change colour until they formed the face of a young woman, of pale skin, with light brown hair and a wreath of white wildflowers in her hair. In her mind, a sibilant female voice spoke words she couldn’t understand, and then a single blood red tear leaked from the face’s eye.

“Roë?”

The vision was gone and the stars were once again uncaring white lights in the dark sky.

“Roë?”

“Mm? What?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her mouth completely dry, Roë asked, “Serana?”

“Mm?”

“When you... They told me you had dreams when sanguinare got bad. Like, sinister ones. Did you ever have dreams before you... turned?”

Serana’s face suddenly hardened and she looked away. “No, Roë. I didn’t have dreams.”

She didn’t? Then maybe Durak and Isran had been talking nonsense when they’d said the dreams were the best way to identify sanguinare vampiris. “Maybe... maybe it’s nothing.” It could have been hallucinations due to the fever. Or just the tension from the spelunking and vampire-killing. Or just her imagination.

“You sure you’re alright?” Serana asked, looking genuinely worried.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, let’s move on.”

She wasn’t fine though. Her legs felt like whitecap stalks and her head felt stuffed full of sack cloth. She kept putting one foot in front of the other, but if this fever got worse, no way she’d make it to Dawnstar in time.

No. That wasn’t an option. She _had_ to make it to Dawnstar in time.

Setting her jaw, she walked on, trying to ignore the dizziness and numbness even as her feet slipped on the sleet that had formed during the hours they’d been walking. Serana had been asking questions mostly, about the state of affairs in the world as it was now. Roë had answered, but her answers had gotten shorter and shorter as the fever got worse. If she’d been feeling healthy, she’d have tons of questions, but right now, she simply couldn’t muster up the strength to be inquisitive.

Serana seemed to understand, slowing her barrage of questions. She probably thought Roë was getting tired – she was – so they’d fallen silent in the last hour. The fever had gotten worse, chills that made cold sweat break from her pores and disorientation that made it extremely difficult to keep her footing. She was in a really bad way, but she had to keep moving at any cost. Resting would be risky. Too risky.

She stumbled and her limbs no longer responded, sending her crashing to the ground in the snow. Her breath, which had slowed during the last hours, suddenly picked up and she fell into a panting fit, gasping for breath as Serana knelt by her to support her head. “Help... help me up, I... I need to get to Dawnstar.”

The young woman’s face with the flower wreath flashed by her vision again. This time both her eyes wept blood.

“Easy, Roë,” Serana said, brushing the hair away from her face. “Take a breather, we’ve been walking for hours.”

“I think... I think it’s not... that big a deal. But I need to... get to Dawnstar.”

“You can’t reach Dawnstar if you’re like this. You need to take a moment to rest, maybe it’ll get better if you catch your breath.” Whatever this was, rest wouldn’t solve it, she was sure of that. She felt herself going from bad to worse, her chest constricting and her bowels cramping. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. But she _had_ to reach Dawnstar.

“It probably just... my fever.”

Serana’s face froze. “You have a fever?”

“Yeah, but it’s... not... not bad. Just need... to rest. In Dawnstar.”

“Roë. If you have a fever on top of porphyric haemophilia, then...”

Oh no. Roë’s insides contracted even harder. No, this couldn’t be true. “Wh... what?”

“Porphyric haemophilia spreads much, much faster when other illnesses are already present. Then both diseases, they... fortify each other.”

No, no, no, _no_! “No, Serana, no!” She tried to get up, but all her strength had left her and she could only struggle in Serana’s cold arms. “Serena. I need to get to Dawnstar. There may still be time, I – ”

“You can’t walk like this, Roë.”

This couldn’t be happening. “Serana, Dawnstar’s only an hour or two away. It’s just tiredness and hallucinations from the fever. We can make it, I – ”

“What kind of hallucinations did you have, Roë?”

“Nothing, just... it was the fever, not – ”

“What kind?”

“Some lady w... with...”

“White flowers in her hair?” Serana asked urgently.

Oh, no, she knew.

“How many times did you see her?”

“It was just... just the fever, I – ”

Serana gave Roë a shake. “How many times?”

“... Twice.”

“Roë.” Serana hesitated for a moment, then said, “You said you didn’t want to be a Vampire, but... I’m afraid the choice has been made for you.”

“No, Serana, I can still walk. I can make it, I can – ”

“Roë. We need to get you out of the wind and the snow. I can’t carry you, I can barely walk myself.”

“Wh... why get me out of the wind and snow?”

Serana said solemnly, but without any emotion, “So you can spend the last minutes of your life out of the cold.”

“Serana, Ser... ana don’t... don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like that, I can... I have to...”

Serana only smiled. “It’s okay, Roë. I told you, it’s not so bad.”

“Yes it is. Yes it is, please I need to...”

“Look at me.”

Roë managed to keep her gaze still long enough to look in Serana’s black-and-red-eyes. They were terrifying and beautiful. “Do I look unhappy?”

“N-no, but – ”

“It’s what you make of it. That’s what I said.”

Tears blurred Roë’s vision. “No, I don’t want this.”

“It’s no longer about wanting. Come on, let’s get you out of the wind.” Serana stopped supporting her, gently lowering her head to the cold snow-covered rock, then rose and grabbed the shoulders of Roë’s leather armour, pulling her in slow and laboured jerks towards a rocky overhang, sheltered from the wind. Sweat was pouring down her face now, and when Serana sat back down next to her, supporting her head, she said, “Water, pl... please. In m-my bag.”

She heard the noise of her bag being turned over and a canteen being unstoppered. She felt the cold smoothness of glass on her lips and cool water poured into her mouth. She swallowed greedily, but the bottle was taken off her lips far too soon.

“Wouldn’t want you to choke. Much nastier way of dying than porphyric haemophilia.”

“How... how do you die from it?” Roë asked, feeling her body growing cold. She felt thin and breakable, and her skin felt as if it was stretched over her bones, in her face especially. Her eyes stung and it was difficult to keep them open.

“Usually in your sleep,” Serana said gently. “If you’re awake, you just slowly fall asleep. It’s mostly painless, I’ve been told.”

“This wasn’t... how I thought it would go.”

“It never is. But believe me, it’s not that bad. It all depends on how you deal with it.”

As she felt her pulse slowing and her mind going woozy, she finally accepted what was about to happen. She simply didn’t have the will to fight it anymore. “This is... just stupid. Ending up dying... in a Vampire’s arms.”

Serana smiled. “Well, that Vampire’s going to be someone of your species in a few hours.”

“Will you... stay with me... until I’m...”

“Dead?” Serana asked, unsurprisingly detached from the whole thing. “Yeah, don’t worry. It’ll take a few hours until you’re... up and about, so to speak, so I’m gonna try and find a light snack in the meantime. Don’t worry, no one will find you.”

Roë felt sleepy.

“Close your eyes now, and I’ll see you in a few hours, alright?”

She didn’t want to close her eyes, she wanted to fight, to struggle, to live, but her eyelids were inexorably pulled closed until all she perceived was Serana’s hand holding hers, no longer cold compared to hers, and then that too faded.

She fell asleep and died.


	16. Falnas: Loud and Clear

 

**FALNAS**

**Loud and Clear**

**City of Riften, the Cistern**

“Well, the other two deadbeats came through,” Brynjolf said to Falnas as they stood in the dark of the Ratway. “Nice work, ashface, didn’t think you had it in you.”

Falnas permitted himself a grin. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t take it personally,” the man said back. “We’ve had so many hopefuls bungling simple jobs lately that I’ve gotten a bit sceptical.”

“Well, I’m not here to bungle.”

“Indeed. Come on, let me introduce you to Mercer, and we can get you initiated.”

Finally. After being rebuked time and again by the only guild member he knew, the iceberg known as Sapphire, he was in! And once you were in the Guild, you were in the money. He’d doubted himself at times, wondered if he’d ever get invited and accepted, but now it was finally the time. Let the good times roll.

He followed Brynjolf through the Ratway, and then through the large open space where he’d met his new employers for the first time. The other man was waiting at the door, the man with the shaven head and Breton accent. Mallory.

“So. ‘E dun’ good?”

“He has,” Brynjolf said. “Mercer in?”

The Breton chuckled. “Mercer’s always in.”

“Yeah, he is, isn’t he,” Brynjolf chuckled back. “Come on, newbie.”

Falnas followed as Brynjolf unlocked the door to the Thieves’ Guild headquarters. “Always stick your key in the crack between the door boards,” Brynjolf explained. “Never in the actual lock unless you’re anxious to know what your own broiled flesh smells like.”

“Noted.” No, that wasn’t something he was curious about.

A click and the Thieves’ Guild headquarters was open, and Falnas was led inside.

It was a room like the one they’d just stood in, a large circular platform in the middle with moderately foul-smelling water running around it in broad canals, but this place was actually furnished and made habitable. Torches hung on the walls, spreading a low but comfortable light. The canals carved the floor into platforms, four on the edge of the dome, and they’d been fitted for various purposes. One had beds on it, the other training dummies and chests. One of the four platforms had been expanded with shoddy wooden carpentry, and that one held barrels and sacks of food, a few tables and chairs, and even a bar.

The other thing that was very tavern-like was the signboard hanging from a pole in the wall, depicting a foaming mug of beer, and with the subscript, “The Ragged Flagon.”

They had made themselves a cosy, if not terrific-smelling home here.

“C’mon in lad,” the Breton said, tapping him on the shoulder. “We just need to get you vetted by Mercer.”

As they walked through the Ragged Flagon, they passed by Sapphire, who gave Falnas a badly-acted look of dismissal.

On the walked, and a blonde woman with a narrow, waspish looking face shot them a look of barely repressed fury. Falnas was about to feel really, really unwelcome here, before he realized that the look wasn’t aimed at him at all, but rather at his shaven companion.

“What’d you do this time, Delvin?”

“Uh... I’ll explain later, yeah?”

Brynjolf chuckled behind Falnas. “Did you get caught again?”

“Listen mate, ‘ow ‘m I s’posed to know she’s in there at that particular hour?”

Falnas had no idea what it was about.

“Alright, Falnas,” Brynjolf said. “You’re about to meet the head of the Guild. I assume you know how to conduct yourself respectfully?”

“Of course,” Falnas said. “I’m the picture of courtesy.” Mallory, meanwhile, had sat down at a table with a flagon of ale.

“Good. Because I’m your sponsor in this, anything stupid you do reflects on me. Mercer, here’s the new guy.”

The man they’d addressed stood behind a counter, but it wasn’t the bar – that was against the wall a ways to the right. This looked more like a shop counter, the man behind it tall and angry-looking, with unkempt red-brown hair and a horseshoe moustache of the same colour. Falnas immediately got an untrustworthy impression from him, but then again, these were thieves, and they weren’t supposed to be moral paragons.

“Huh, you’re the new recruit, huh?” the man asked, his voice rough and sharp, clearly used to carrying authority. “Welcome to the Guild. You dick us over, and you’ll end up without a single copper to scratch your arse with, but play by the rules, and you get very, very rich.”

“Odd,” Falnas remarked, “that there are rules in a place called the Thieves’ Guild.”

This man did not like being talked back to, that was instantly clear when he leaned forward and growled, “Since you’re new, I’ll let that comment slide. But let me make one thing very clear to you: you do what we say, when we say, or the only way you’ll ever make a copper is by begging. That clear?”

Falnas knew when to back off and defer to the people who had the authority. “Of course, I was just wondering.”

The man was somewhat satisfied, standing upright again, though the suspicion in his eyes remained. “Well, don’t. Don’t try to be smart, that’s my job. Brynjolf your sponsor?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. Learn all you can from him. There’s probably a job lined up for you already, so get to it.”

Hm, this one wasn’t much for wasting time. Or having a conversation. “Understood.”

“C’mon newbie,” Brynjolf said, “I’ve got a job for you indeed. Just one more introduction and then you can start with the money making.”

The guild leader didn’t even say goodbye and went right back to his ledger.

“He’ll warm up to you,” Brynjolf said, “after you’ve done a few big-money jobs, don’t worry. Now, the last person I want you to meet”, he went on, leading Falnas back to the bar platform, in the gloom of the flickering torches, “will be your biggest source of cash. You’ll get paid by the Guild for doing jobs, but that’s not where most of your money will come from. We encourage opportunism during jobs.” The wooden platform creaked as they walked on it, to a young Redguard woman sitting in the shadows. “Meet Tonilia. No matter what you’ve stolen or where you’ve stolen it from, Tonilia can find a buyer for it.”

“Ah,” Falnas said, “the resident fence. I was always told that stealing is easy, it’s actually selling the stuff that’s the challenge.”

“Truer words,” Brynjolf agreed. “And Tonilia is nothing short of a miracle worker. Tonilia, meet Falnas, our newest.”

The woman stood up and greeted him. She was shy, but had a strange sinister aura about her. “Welcome to the Guild. I’m looking forward to a prosperous and lucrative relationship.”

“As am I,” Falnas said back. “Whatever I can carry on my back, it’s yours.” He meant it. Being able to fence goods was a luxury he’d never had, and he intended to use it fully now.

“Now then,” Brynjolf said. “We’ll drink to your admission when you get back, but right now, you’ve got a job to do.”

Brynjolf explained the details, the operation being part of one of Maven Black-briars bids to stamp out the mead competition, and then led Falnas to a small niche in the wall. Barely perceptible, was a ladder leading upward.

“You won’t have to go through the Ratway anymore. From now on, you can enter and leave through here.” He held out a strange, flat key. “Your copy.”

Falnas took and pocketed it, then watched as Brynjolf ascended the ladder. There was a clicking sound and a mechanism made the stone at the top of the ladder grate out of the way, opening the way up. Falnas followed Brynjolf in climbing the ladder, and found himself in a small mausoleum in the Riften graveyard.

“Ah- _ha_ ,” Falnas realized. “So that’s how you get around so quickly.”

“Indeed. I have to warn you though, it’s not Thieves’ Guild policy to kill anyone, but if you blab about this secret entrance, there’s a good chance you’ll get yourself a nice little space right here too.”

Falnas grinned. “I didn’t join this club just to blab about it. I’ve known Sapphire for a while now, knew she was a member too, and she knows I’m good for it.”

“Yeah, she... spoke of you,” Brynjolf said with an unreadable face. That could mean a lot of things. Falnas resisted the urge to get into it.

“So then, to Goldenglow Estate I go?”

Brynjolf nodded. “Listen. I know Maven is nuts. But she’s got a lot of connections and I have a good feeling about her having a line on some good jobs down the line. Remember, you’re there to bloody their nose, not drop bodies. No killing.”

“If I wanted to kill,” Falnas said, “I would have joined those maniacs at the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Good. Now then, off with you.”

Falnas began walking, off to Goldenglow Estate. His first real job for the Guild. If he did this right, it meant big money. The job itself didn’t appear so complicated, of course, they never did before you were actually in the thick of it. Three beehives to burn, and a safe to raid. The safe might pose a problem, but the beehives would be a cakewalk. Just approach them and set them on fire, hopefully not suffering too many beestings in the process. Falnas felt a bit bad for the poor bees, but they were only bugs after all. Destroying the beehives would cripple Goldenglow’s honey production, which in turn would make it impossible for them to brew mead. It was supposed to be a powerful message for Aringoth, Goldenglow’s owner. He’d decided to try and make his own fortune instead of paying Maven off on a monthly basis. He’d even hired guards, and one of the Guild, the narrow-faced blonde, had almost gotten herself killed trying to break in. Maven had, predictably, not taken very kindly to that.

Falnas had been explicitly told not to level the whole estate, so he’d have to be somewhat cautious with the burning. Maybe set them on fire, then make sure the workers saw so they could put it out before it did too much damage. At any rate, with the new mercenaries there, it might be a somewhat hairy job. Which was probably why they sent the newbie. Still, they’d been courteous enough to relay the blonde’s information to him. She’d used the old sewer tunnel to get in, and she’d only been noticed after gaining entry, so the sewer tunnel would most likely still be open and unguarded. It was supposedly on an island in a lake some ways off. He’d been given directions, and it was those directions he was following now. Past Snowshod Farm and then to the larger of two islands just offshore. He was about to swim the distance, but when he saw a small rowing boat concealed in the reeds, he borrowed that instead.

Night was falling, and it’d be an ideal time to grant himself access to the brewery. Rule number one of burglary: night time is the right time.

Good thing he’d found the boat, because the water in Skyrim tended to be ice cold, and hypothermia was not something he felt particularly interested in. He grounded the boat and jumped off, careful not to let the water get in his boots. It wasn’t hypothermia, but soggy boots were not very pleasant either.

Indeed, there was a sewer pipe that emerged from the island, its mouth dripping into the water below. It’d be perfectly feasible to lower himself into the pipe from the top so he wouldn’t have to get wet. He climbed onto the pipe mouth and lowered himself, carefully letting his body hang over the water until his feet found purchase. He let go and shifted his weight so he could duck into the pipe. And that was that.

The pipe up ahead looked pitch dark. Should have brought a damn torch. Too late now.

As his nose resigned to the smell of piss and poop and his eyes adapted to the darkness, Falnas slowly crept forward, hunched over in the low pipe. Banging one’s head in the darkness could be extremely dangerous and even deadly, so he held out one hand in front of him, at the height of his forehead.

What was that?

Falnas stopped and listened. Those had been paws scratching on stone alright. Damnit, he hoped it was just rats. No more sound came, except his own heart beating in his ears, and Falnas carefully crept forward.

With a shriek, a ball of disgusting wet fur smacked against him, and as Falnas clawed at it, flailing in pure reflex, he felt sharp teeth grazing the side of his throat. Falnas let out a startled cry and hooked his fingers into the thing’s fur, pulling the coarse, wet, clumpy hair as hard as he could. There was a tearing sensation as the things claws tried to find purchase, but it was too small to resist Falnas’ strength, and he was able to throw it to the ground. He could see next to nothing in the darkness, but what faint movement he saw was enough: he brought his boot down on the fallen animal, stomping as hard as he could. There was a sickening crunch under his foot, and another shriek sounded as his boot broke the creature’s spine. Falnas lifted his foot again and made it come down hard on where he thought the head was, crushing the skeever’s skull like a wet paper bag.

“Almalexia’s flaccid clam, that was close,” he breathed, leaning against the wall of the pipe for support. A skeever was only a nuisance in normal circumstances, but one leaping you in the dark could very well be deadly. Skeevers could leap very high, and had strong, sharp teeth that were more than capable of crushing a larynx or severing an artery. Falnas touched the side of his neck, and the wet, warm stuff on his fingers confirmed the suspicion made by the pulsating, burning pain. He was bitten alright. The bite had been stopped by his sternomastoid muscle, but the teeth had broken skin and probably damaged the muscle tissue underneath too. And given the uncleanness of skeevers, he could safely assume he’d contracted an illness or two. The tissue damage wasn’t debilitating and could probably be healed at a temple, but cure disease potions were pretty expensive lately, and until he could buy one, he’d have to sweat it out. His own fault for not remembering to bring a torch.

He got his wits back together and focused on the job. He skulked forward, uncomfortably aware of his blindness and any skeever’s advantage in the darkness. It took him several minutes to cover the short distance, but when he reached the end of the tunnel, he saw light coming down from cracks in the ceiling.

No, not cracks in the ceiling, he realized when he came closer, but in a hatch. Nice, he was probably right under Goldenglow Estate. He ascended the ladder and gave the hatch a push. It didn’t move, naturally, being locked from the inside. A few metres further, there was a splat-splash of fresh evacuate being dumped in the sewers. It stank like the Hells, but would have stunk a lot more if he’d been under the ghastly shower at the time.

Fishing his knife from his pocket, Falnas hooked one of his elbows around the step of the ladder, and inserted the blade into the crack of the hatch. A few hard pulls and the lock snapped with a measured and controlled _tink_.

He stayed on the ladder for a few seconds, listening for a possible reaction. Nobody had heard or seen. Good.

Carefully, he pushed the hatch open and peeped through, most likely looking extremely comical while he did so. Nobody there. He’d ended up in a small storage room, full of wheats and hops and barleys. Nothing worth stealing, sadly. Deftly, he hoisted himself up through the hatch, not sorry at all to leave the stinking, dark sewers behind him. Damn skeever had got him good, he saw now, the collar and left breast of his jacket red with blood.

But no time to mourn his cheap clothes. If he did this right, he’d be able to buy something much less haggard. He didn’t know the layout of the estate, but it was most likely that the brewery itself was on the lower levels, and all the rest above it. Mead had to be brewed in dark places, didn’t it?

As Falnas reached for the handle of the door that led out of the storage, he heard heavy-soled boots come down behind the door. Dammit, they hadn’t been kidding about the guards. Thankfully, most people usually hired Nords and Redguards for this kind of job, and they usually walked loud enough to make the lanterns flicker three storeys higher. Falnas stayed quiet and listened until the footsteps were well out of earshot, then he granted himself access to the estate. First, the safe. Brynjolf had said it was on the ground floor, so one storey up. He sneaked down the hallway, and went up the stairs, the wood only slightly creaking when he ascended.

More boots sounded and Falnas froze, but the footsteps went away from him, and after a few seconds, it was quiet again. He was on the ground floor now, quietly moving forward while looking around. One of the doors was ajar, a stripe of light coming from the opening. Most likely the office, where Aringoth was, hopefully, working the books. It’d be ideal. All he needed was the safe key, so he’d be spared the misery of working the lock. Safes usually had really complex ones, and it’d take him a while to get inside. With the key, it would only take a second.

Carefully, Falnas crept closer and peered inside. The man standing with his back to him was Altmer alright, taller and more lanky than the Nords you kept running into in Skyrim. He had a rather ludicrous haircut, a voluminous fountain of grey hair that looked like an oversized helmet. Silly Altmer.

Still, this silly Altmer probably held the key to the safe, and that was what Falnas needed. He doubted he’d give it up quietly or easily, so some violence was probably required. After quickly looking up and down the hallway to see if no one was coming, Falnas quickly slipped inside, took a candlestick from a nearby table, and raised it behind the Altmer’s head. He wasn’t there to kill people, something he’d always told himself he would never do unless in self defence, but busting a few heads was perfectly fine.

He brought the candlestick down on the Altmer’s grey coif. It struck with a dull thud, and the Altmer’s knees immediately gave out. He hadn’t hit the poor bastard too hard, because it wasn’t like in the books, where people constantly knocked each other out with hard blows to the head. Hitting someone hard on the head was very dangerous and could very well be fatal. This little tap of the candlestick though, was controlled and light enough to just cause severe pain and disorientation. As soon as the Altmer fell, Falnas caught him and immediately pressed his hand to his victim’s mouth. No screaming.

“Hmph?! Hmmmph!”

“Quiet.”

“HMMMPH!”

“ _Quiet_.”

He’d gotten through to the man, and he stopped trying to make noise, only breathing hard through his nose.

With his free hand, Falnas drew his dagger and pressed it against the brewer’s back. “Listen here. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. When I do, you don’t make a sound, or my knife is going into your lungs. You don’t turn your head. I see your face, you’re dead. That clear?”

The mer nodded furiously.

“Good. No screaming now.” He took his hand off the Altmer’s mouth, and indeed, he remained quiet.

“The key to your safe. Now.”

“Wh... what?”

“The key,” Fanlas repeated. “Give me the key.”

“Th... the key?”

He wasn’t getting through, it seemed. Some swearing might jar his brain. “Give me the fucking key, you motherfucking cocksucker,” he hissed, hoping the man wouldn’t be able to recognize his voice if he ever had to indicate him as suspect and he had to repeat that little line. He pushed the knife a little harder to emphasize his point.

“Alright, alright,” the brewer finally breathed. In my vest pocket. On the peg over there.”

“ _Don’t_ turn your head,” Falnas threatened when he felt the mer was about to point to the clothes peg.

“Did M... did Maven send you?”

“Who?” Falnas lied. It was bad practice to blab about clients. If bitchy Maven wanted this guy to know she’d been responsible, she’d doubtless have ways of telling him that herself. “Now shut up.”

Though he’d forgotten a torch, he _had_ remembered to bring some basic incapacitating gear. With his free hand, he fished the pre-tied gag from his mouth and threw it over Aringoth’s head, tightening it until it made it impossible for the mer to make anything in the way of noise. Then he slipped the bag over his victim’s head, tightening the strings. He told the mer to put his hands behind his back, and he tied those as well. Lastly, he tied his legs, then fixed them to his hands. He’d have a hard time getting free of that, and all the noise he’d be able to make would be banging his head on the floorboards, and that in turn would be muffled by the ugly yellow carpet. He’d hopefully be gone by the time someone found him. Still, he threatened, “I’m coming back here a few times. You move, you’re dead. Got it?”

The sack nodded furiously.

“Good. Stay still and all you’ll end up with tomorrow is an aching head.” It was a blatant lie, but it would serve its purpose for a short time, and that was all he needed. He got to his feet, fished in the vest pocket and took out a long metallic object. That was what he needed. Now to open the safe. The key fit perfectly in the small metal box chained to the wall, under the desk. Falnas took out the bill of sale in the safe. That was what Brynjolf had told him to bring. Excellent. Now for some arson, the easy part, and he was done here.

Just as he ducked out of the doorway, however, he heard boots stomping in the hallway, and he quickly pulled back inside. Dammit. If that guard came in, he was royally butt-fucked. He quickly shot a few looks around the room and saw the solution. The window opened into a nice garden, with hedges and flowers and all that. The hedges were very interesting indeed. He quickly moved toward the window, opening the latch and peering out. If a guard saw, all he’d think was that Aringoth had opened a window.

Only one guard stood in the garden, near the front of the house, but he had his back to him. Falnas quickly flipped over the window sill and landed outside, ducking behind a hedge.

“What’s going on here? Alarm!”

Damn, the guard had discovered his tied-up friend. Falnas remained where he was, quiet and unseen.

“Alarm!” the guard shouted again. “Everyone! Inside! Search the house, the thief must still be inside!”

Through a hole in the hedge, Falnas saw the one guard at the front of the house leave his post and run to the house. Praise Nocturnal, this was too perfect.

“Amiel! Cyrus! Search the basement!” the guard barked. “You two, search this floor. You, with me, we’re blocking the exits. Make sure nobody gets out of the house!”

Hah, too late, silly buggers. Amusing when guards actually made the job easier with their own blundering.

“Buddy system,” the guard leader ordered. “Maintain line of sight with each other at all times.”

That’s it, keep on shouting orders. How these people didn’t realize that the more noise they made, the easier they were to evade, Falnas didn’t know. Then again, simple races...

He crouch-ran to the front lawn, where the beehives were. This was a great opportunity, and he wouldn’t even have to return. The simplicity of it was almost ludicrous. Snatching a lantern from a nearby hook, he ran for the first beehive. He opened the oil reservoir and let some spill on the wooden construction. A tiny twig lit on fire did the trick as soon as it was brought close enough, and a small flame appeared, hovering over the oil, quickly expanding to form first a sizeable bonfire, and then a roaring inferno. By that time, Falnas had already lit the second beehive on fire and was running for the third.

“There he is! Fire, fire!”

Shit, almost!

“He’s burning the beehives, get him!”

He knew the guard was running towards him, but he didn’t have to time even to look up. This hive had to burn. The twig’s flame again jumped to the oil, and off it went.

Now he did dare to look up, and he saw the guard rushing towards him, his longsword drawn. The second guard appeared as well, his crossbow ready. Balls! Time to make a run for it. Before he did so, though, he threw the lantern over the last beehive, making sure it caught enough fire for them to be unable to extinguish it. Then he ran, and just as he launched himself towards the front gate, a crossbow bolt zipped past him, carrying embers from the burning beehive with it, like the fireworks his compatriots sometimes lit back in Mournhold.

“Stop! Stop right there!” the running guard barked as Falnas sprinted for dear life. Another crossbow bolt flew past him, smashing apart on the wall ten metres in front of him. Falnas ran until he reached the gate, then propelled himself upward, grabbing hold of the jutting iron spikes on top of the gate and pulling himself up. He felt a hand claw at the leg of his pants, but the fingers didn’t find purchase and he was over, smacking into the ground and rolling so he could immediately break into a run.

“Get him! Get him!”

As Falnas ran, he heard the jangling of keys. Hah, of course. No way that Redguard could climb the gate with all the ironware he had wrapped around him. A last crossbow bolt flashed past him, so close Falnas felt the air displacement, but by the time the guards got the gate open, Falnas was too far for any of them to have any hope of catching him. Still, he kept running as far and as fast as he could, until he reached a small forest, where he finally allowed himself to slow to a jog, and then a walk.

This job had gone so smoothly, and Falnas realized he’d had a lot of lucky breaks.

So many, in fact, that if he was a superstitious man, he’d probably believe some higher power was protecting him.

 


	17. Keljarn: The Silver Hand

**Keljarn**

**The Silver Hand**

**Jorrvaskr**

 

“You awake, new blood?”

“I am now.”

The hangover wasn’t as bad as it had been the day before, but there was still a faintly throbbing sensation in the back of his head, and a cork dry feeling in his mouth, which tasted like the inside of a carriage driver’s glove. There had been mead yesterday night, when they’d come back to show off the Wuuthrad fragment they’d found, and while Farkas had drunken himself into a total stupor, Keljarn had remembered to practice at least some moderation, and he was glad he had. No puddle of puke next to his bed, no head-smashing hangover, no nausea or dizziness, just a bit of a headache, a dry mouth and a lot of tiredness.

Skjor stood in the doorway, looking considerably less mocking than the day before. Keljarn only half-noticed he hadn’t been called milk drinker this time. Seemed like he’d made an impression.

“Come on, there’s something important we need to discuss,” the man said, then added, “But not here. Come to the Underforge.”

Keljarn sat on the edge of the bed, scratching his head. “The what?” he asked, but Skjor had already turned around and gone into the hallway.

It was just past dawn, probably. It was hard to tell underground, but Keljarn suspected these people didn’t want him to delay. He threw on his clothes, smelly as they were, buckled his weapon belt and trudged out of his room, grinning at the monstrously heavy snoring sounds that came from Farkas’ room.

No one was around in the mead hall, but the light coming through the cracks between the wood made it clear that it was, indeed, just past dawn. Damn that old geezer for waking him up so early.

A door creaked and Ria, the friendly Cyrodiilic girl trotted in, carrying a basket of bread.

“Morning, Ria,” Keljarn croaked.

“Oh, good morning.”

Even tired as he was, Keljarn noticed that she didn’t address him by his rank, which was currently apprentice. That could mean she’d either lost her previous good manners, or it could mean something else. “Are congratulations in order?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t wrong.

The girl’s beaming smile told him he wasn’t. “It’s no big deal,” the girl said, but she looked about to burst with pride.

“Yes it is,” Keljarn told her, stepping toward her, taking her by the shoulders and giving her three well-deserved kisses on the cheek. “Congratulations, apprentice.”

“Ooh,” the girl laughed nervously, turning beet-red and looking away. “It’s r-really not that special.”

“Stop saying that. You can be proud of yourself. I bet Njada was angry as a bullwhipped dremora though?”

“She was... not very happy.”

“If she’s smart,” Keljarn said, “she’ll learn from it and apply herself more seriously from now on.”

The girl stood a head smaller than Keljarn, but she still looked up at him and said, “She does put in a lot of effort, you know.”

Keljarn shook his head. “I’m sure she does, but that’s not what I meant. I’ve only been here for two days, but even in that short time, I’ve learned that the Companions value a cooperative attitude just as much as a strong arm.”

“It’s... not my place to judge her,” Ria said, but Keljarn wouldn’t have that.

“Yes it is. You’re an apprentice now, she’s an initiate.”

The girl gave another nervous chuckle and conceded, “Well... maybe I’ll tell her to go fetch some mead tonight.”

Keljarn clapped her on the shoulder. “Good!” Then he asked, “Say, you have any idea where the Underforge is?”

The girl blinked in surprise. “No, but... did they invite you there?”

“Well, ‘invite’...” Keljarn said. “They told me I had to be there, yes.”

What little pride had shown in the girl’s demeanour promptly vanished again and she returned to her humble self. “I don’t know where it is, but... well... people who are called to the Underforge, they come out... different somehow. Or so I’m told.”

“Hm. Different in a bad way?”

“No, no... I’d only just joined when Farkas and Vilkas went to the Underforge, two years ago, and they’re still the same, just... different. I don’t know how to explain it. I doubt it’s bad though, since they were seen as equals by Aela and Skjor from then on.”

“Huh. So I guess it’s good news then.”

She smiled nervously. “I hope so, yes.”

Footsteps came from Jorrvaskr’s lower level, and Aela emerged, dressed in simple furs, without face paint this time. Keljarn guessed it was too early for even Aela to spend time on warpaint. She looked less feral but no less breathtaking.

“Morning, Companion,” Ria greeted the huntress with a humble bow.

“Morning, apprentices,” Aela said to them both, though a wink at Keljarn told him Ria’s hunch had been accurate and he probably wouldn’t be an apprentice for long. By the Nine, he was making a career so fast even Ria would get green with envy if he didn’t tone it down a notch.

“Morning, Aela. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Underforge is, would you?”

She smiled mysteriously. “Of course I know. I need you for something else first, though.”

“Oh?”

She flung herself down at a table. “I’ll explain in a minute. Sit down you two, have a damn drink. Chomp some bread. Can’t start a work day on an empty stomach.”

“Truer words,” Keljarn agreed, and sat down beside her.

“Ria, would you mind getting us a jug of berry juice and a basket of bread?”

Not an order this time, but a question. The girl had earned that much. With a smile, she said, “Of course, companion,” and scooted off toward the kitchen.

Looking at her go, Aela nodded and said, “Knew it was a good idea to make her apprentice.”

“Humbly in agreement, yes,” Keljarn said to that. “Always a good sign when people get promoted and don’t change a bit.”

“Exactly. So,” Aela said. “While Ria is gone...”

“Mm?”

“You retrieved a fragment of Wuuthrad. That’s no small feat.”

Keljarn began to laugh it off and said, “Well, Farkas did all the w – ”

“Farkas spoke very highly of your contribution,” Aela interrupted him gently. “I know this might seem a little strange to you, but we’ve talked it through and we feel you’re ready to become a Companion.”

“Wh... I... a Companion?” Keljarn stammered, overcome by the offer. “Isn’t that a bit early?”

Aela shrugged. “Only if you think it is. We’re seeing Kodlak after breakfast. He has the final say, and he has to deem you worthy, but honestly, I think that’s a formality. You were born to be in the Companions.”

The acknowledgment sent a flush of warmth through him. “Well, I’m... overwhelmed.” He knew better than to second-guess the Companions. If they felt he was worthy, then worthy he was.

“It’s well-deserved,” Aela said with a shrug. “Here comes Ria, let’s keep this quiet until it’s official.”

“Sure.”

They ate their breakfast while talking about all sorts of things, mostly Ria asking Keljarn all the details about the Wuuthrad fragment quest (“By Azura, you brought down a _draugr_?!”) and gushing over how she was looking forward to joining experienced Companions for quests of her own. Keljarn was happy for her, and she deserved it, but he couldn’t keep his mind off the fact that they were making him a Companion so soon. He’d only been here a few days, and Ria and Njada, though admittedly less experienced (and less lucky) than him, had to train for months to rise in rank. It was strange, really strange.

The topic shifted to the mer with the elfhawk, Athis, who’d been injured on the day Keljarn arrived in Whiterun. Apparently he was healing rather nicely, but he still needed lots of rest, so he’d been taken home for a while, to recover. The two brothers came up when they’d started breakfast, and eagerly partook, but not before Farkas got Njada out of her bed so she could serve more food and drink. The Nord girl had noticed Ria sitting at the table with the rest of them, put two and two together, and given Ria the vilest, most envious look Keljarn had ever seen. She only had herself to blame.

Skjor joined them last, not saying much, but with every word he said, he had Aela’s full attention, and since Keljarn’s senses didn’t usually deceive him, he was pretty sure a certain ship had sailed for him. Unfortunate.

After breakfast, Aela rose and motioned for Keljarn to do the same. They silently crossed the mead hall and went down the stairs at the other side. “These are Kodlak’s quarters. Your last step in becoming a Companion,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“So what’s this whole Underforge thing about?”

Aela frowned. “I said we’ll explain later. First, you see Kodlak. When he approves, you’re a Companion.”

“So much mystery,” Keljarn said with a grin.

“So much impatience,” Aela said, grinning back.

Aela knocked on a wooden door and waited. After a few moments, a hoarse voice came through the wood. “Come.”

“Your cue, _apprentice_.”

“Right.”

Keljarn opened the door and entered the room, finding himself face to face with an old, white-haired man with a long, equally white beard, wearing a suit of reinforced leather armour. Like the two brothers, he was, for want of a better word, abnormally hairy, the silver hair on his arms so thick it was almost fur. Age notwithstanding, the man looked like he could still pull the head off a brown bear. A triangular tattoo adorned his right cheek. “So. You must be Keljarn, our newest addition.”

“I am. It’s an honour to finally meet you, Harbinger.”

The man laughed. “So formal. Please, you’ve proven yourself enough so I’ll spare you the sceptical condescension-act. All of the Companions are in agreement of your talent and skill, even Skjor. And that doesn’t happen very often.”

“I do my best,” Keljarn merely said. What was one supposed to say to such a compliment.

“Indeed.” The man fell quiet and scrutinized Keljarn carefully. The silence lasted uncomfortably long, but finally, he said, “You’ve proven the strength of your arm, and the sharpness of your wit. Welcome, Companion.”

Despite being assured by Aela that it was a formality, a wave of relief washed over Keljarn. “Thank you Harbinger. So do I... take orders from you now?”

The man laughed. “No, Companion, I don’t give orders. I’m just...” he spread his hands. “... an advisor, of sorts.”

“I could use some advice?”

“On?”

“Just... what do I do now?”

He smiled. “You go see your fellow Companions and observe them, learn from them. And you give apprentices the chance to observe you. Learn from you. You’ll be fine.”

“if you say so.”

The old man laughed and slapped his knee. “I do say so. Now, let me just give you one more word of advice.”

“Of course?”

“If you get invited to something called the Circle... think long and hard about whether you truly want to be part of it. I can’t forbid the others to invite you, and I can’t forbid you to join, but think on it. Very carefully and very well. That’s all I ask.”

“I thought the Companions weren’t all that big on mystery?” Keljarn asked. “What’s this whole Circle thing?”

Kodlak shook his head. “I can’t say, Companion. You must decide for yourself. Just... make the decision carefully.”

Well, looked like these people were high on drama after all. Still, Keljarn was never the type to make rash and stupid decisions, and he wasn’t about to start now. “I’ll be careful, Harbinger.”

“All I ask. Now, off with you,” he said with a friendly grin.

“Thank you for this honour,” Keljarn said, but the man shooed him away, his grin widening. “Thank your fellows for recommending you. I’m sure they have a job for you already.”

Indeed they had. The mysterious Underforge. Maybe that had to do with the Circle. He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

He spent the rest of the day training, sparring with Vilkas under the attentive eye of Ria. During the last two hours of training, Vilkas said that since he was a Companion now (which made Ria’s eyes almost fall out of their sockets, but thankfully not in a petty or jealous way), he better earn his keep and start training the apprentices. So he did, spending two hours sparring with Ria while Vilkas worked with Njada. It was pretty clear now why the two women were promoted at a far slower pace than he had been. For all her devoted attitude, Ria had very little experience when it came to fighting, which wasn’t all that surprising, since she’d spent most of her time observing, and very little time actually handling a weapon. Probably the way the Companions worked, and it was likely to be the same for Njada too, from what he saw. Keljarn wasn’t a grizzled veteran, but he’d had quite a bit of training in the local militia, and from there in the mercenary group he’d been part of a few years ago. Inexperienced though Ria was, she applied herself with all her energy, sparring on despite her obvious tiredness and listening intently when Keljarn gave her advice, doing her best to incorporate it as soon as he’d explained.

He spent another hour pitting Ria and Njada against each other, and he had to admit, for all her attitude, Njada had been paying attention during training too, and Ria was outmatched in every match. Still, she was clearly doing her best to incorporate Keljarn’s pointers into her fighting style, and it pleased him to see it.

The training had gone on without any incidents, and Keljarn was pleased to see Njada thanking Ria for the opportunity to practice, with Ria thanking her right back. He hoped Njada had learned her lesson and would be presenting herself a little more constructively from now on. The thought made him chuckle as he realized he it made him feel just like an experienced combat trainer, which he wasn’t by any means.

Evening fell, and after a light meal of pork, vegetables and mead, Aela sent the two junior members to the sparring ground for clean-up. Farkas stood up and told Keljarn that it was time to go to the Underforge. The other Companions had already left the table.

Keljarn chuckled. “Gladly, if someone would finally tell me where it is?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

They went outside, into the Whiterun night. At the foot of the hill, Keljarn saw torches flicker, people walking to the taverns and mothers calling their children inside for bedtime. He heard the tinks of Adriana Avenicci’s hammer, its owner still hard at work. It seemed like an age since he’d stood by her forge, talking about axes.

“Hey, daydreamer?” Farkas called out with a grin. “Come on, this is important.”

“Sorry, I’m with you.”

“Above, on this hill is the Skyforge,” Farkas explained. “Where Eorlund makes his incredible weapons. You should visit it sometime. That axe you’ve got there is exceptional craftsmanship, but not even Adriana Avenicci can match the miracles Eorlund and the Skyforge can work.”

“Yes,” Keljarn said. “I really should go take a look.”

“You should. But right now, we’ve got other things to discuss.”

Farkas walked to the cobblestone wall at the foot of the Skyforge and inserted the tip of his dagger between two stones. There was a low grating sound, and a door opened, set with cobblestone so it was hidden until it was activated. “I present you, the Underforge,” Farkas said, holding out his hand and inviting Keljarn in.

Faint heart never won fair lady and all that, so Keljarn took a breath and stepped inside.

It was dark as the pits in there, but there was just enough light to see that Skjor was there. Vilkas too. Where was Aela though? Maybe she wasn’t part of the Circle? No, that couldn’t be right. She’d told him about the Underforge. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a basin in the middle, though he couldn’t see if it was filled. The air smelled of metal.

Skjor spoke after Farkas had come in and sealed the door again. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Aela’s here too.”

Vilkas nodded. “Aela, step forward, please?”

Keljarn thought his eyes would fall out of their sockets when he heard an animalistic breathing, and a large, hairy monster stepped forward, into the dim light. It was a muscled, hunched humanoid covered with brown fur, its head resembling that of a large wolf, with steel blue eyes, an elongated muzzle and a mouth filled with wicked fangs.

This wasn’t... this couldn’t be... the colour of that fur... “Aela?”

The creature reacted with a snort. This was the thing Farkas had also turned into. He’d heard of werewolves, but he’d always laughed at the silly myths, same as he’d been sceptical about the draugr, but like those draugr, this... this was real. Right before his eyes. “You’re... werewolves?”

Vilkas nodded. “This is the Circle. All Circle members are Companions, but not all Companions are Circle members.”

“Is she... dangerous?” Keljarn asked in a tiny voice.

The monster let out a mocking growl.

“Not to you, no,” Skjor grinned. “But Talos help anyone who gets in her way.”

Keljarn looked back at Farkas. “So when those five attackers fell on us, you...”

“I had to change, yes,” Farkas admitted. “You weren’t supposed to see this so soon, but it was that or both of us dead.”

“Yes, Farkas... hastened the process a little,” Vilkas said, a slight tone of chastisement towards his brother in his voice, “but we’ve discussed it, and we believe inviting you to the Circle is the best thing to do.” He shrugged. “Since you already knew, in a way.”

“But...” Keljarn protested. “... You’re werewolves. I mean... Aren’t you supposed to be... bloodthirsty monsters?”

Skjor gave a hoarse laugh. “That’s what they tell you, isn’t it? Does Aela look like a monster?” He checked himself. “Wait, don’t answer that. Does she act like one?”

The Aela-wolf cocked its head at Keljarn, seeming perfectly docile.

“Well, honestly, what I saw from Farkas yesterday was monstrous enough.”

Farkas shook his head. “Not monstrous. That was self-defence.”

“A being is only monstrous,” Vilkas said, “if he has no control over his actions. It’s true that we’re a terrible force if we bring our might to bear, but the code of honour we have in the Companions applies for the Circle as well. Only in self-defence or against people who deserve it.”

“Your axe,” Skjor continued, “is a force of destruction as well. But you have just as much control over it as we do over our beast forms. A weapon is only as terrible as its wielder. You don’t hate the axe if it commits injustice, you hate the wielder.”

“It’s not the bow that kills,” Farkas said.

“No,” Keljarn said. “It’s the arrow.”

“It’s the _wielder_ ,” Vilkas corrected him with an irritated frown. “No one likes a smart pants.”

“So... why are you telling me all this?” Keljarn asked, already hoping for the answer and dreading it just the same.

“You know why,” Skjor said. “Our gift is yours if you want it.”

So that really was what he was here for. His throat went dry. He knew he had the right to refuse, but he also knew if he did, there would never be a second offer, or a second chance. “Kodlak... Kodlak said to think long and hard on whether I want to accept this.”

Farkas snorted. “Of course he did.”

Vilkas shot his brother an admonishing look. “Much as we respect and admire Kodlak and his counsel, we...”

“... don’t agree on the gift or curse of lycanthropy,” Skjor took over. “Kodlak seems to think this is a curse, but we beg to differ.” He swept his hand at Aela. “This shape is nothing more than a tool. It doesn’t turn you into a madman,” he chuckled, “or madwoman. You have increased strength, speed, agility, and there’s no cost to pay, no lost sanity, no rampaging by moonlight, no abducting young maidens.”

“You might get a little more adventurous. Grow a little more body hair,” Farkas said, “And enjoy red meat a bit more.” He laughed. “Hardly a curse, is it?”

They were right. They had to be. They hadn’t steered him wrong so far, and they all seemed honourable. Even Aela, right now, in the form of a hulking, terrible beast had something noble about her. And this was a one time deal, he knew even though it hadn’t been said. “No side effects, right? No insanity? Horrible dreams? Waking up naked and covered in blood?”

“None whatsoever,” Skjor said solemnly. “Companion’s honour.”

Keljarn swallowed. His heart beat hard in his chest. “Can I have a day to think about this?”

Skjor nodded, and the other Companions with him. “It’s not an easy decision. You can have one day, but on one condition.”

“Let me guess,” Keljarn said, relieved that he’d get to think things over for a little longer. “I don’t speak of this to anyone?”

Vilkas nodded. “Exactly. Not even Kodlak. Not until you’ve made your decision. The others, not at all.”

“I can keep a secret,” Keljarn said with a nod.

“Good,” Skjor said. “Now let’s leave Aela on her own so she can shapeshift back.”

With a chuckle, Farkas added, “Aela wouldn’t appreciate us standing right here while she shifts out of the form that grew so quickly it tore most of her clothes to shreds. Unfortunately.”

The Aela-beast gave a threatening growl toward the bearded Nord, but Farkas’ reaction showed the whole thing was in jest.

“Come on,” Vilkas told Keljarn, putting his hand on his shoulder. “Take your time to think things over, and have your answer ready tomorrow evening. Until then, we’ve got something to keep you busy.”

“Since you know what we are now,” Skjor said, “You’re also entitled to know who hunts us. Aela will give you all the information you need once she’s dressed and ready.”

The stone door fell back into place and they found themselves in the cool evening air.

“Farkas, no peeking,” his brother said with a grin.

“What kind of creep do you take me for, brother?” Farkas laughed back.

Skjor, meanwhile, continued to explain to Keljarn. “They’re called the Silver Hand, and they think as you did before you came into the Underforge. That we’re crazed beasts, rampaging demons that tear childrens’ throats open at night and devour maidens in oceans of blood.” He rolled his eyes. “You know the type, and you know the drama.”

Keljarn did know the type. Not those people specifically, but those narrow-minded crusaders who’d passed judgment on one kind of people, condemning them as animals or subhumans and swearing to eradicate them. They were usually lunatics, but sometimes... sometimes they were right. Though the name did suddenly ring a bell. “The Silver Hand, I’ve heard that before.”

Farkas fell into step beside them as they walked back into Jorrvaskr. “They’re the ones who ambushed us yesterday. They want us dead, plain and simple, and they don’t even remember why. Or care.”

“Exactly,” Skjor said, leading them back inside. “Njada, mead, double-time it!”

The sour girl trotted off with an equally sour face. Ria was nowhere to be found. Skjor made certain of that with a quick look around and went on, his one eye fixating on Keljarn. “We’ve found out where they are right now. They’re have a camp near Gallows Rock.”

Keljarn knew the place. It wasn’t all that far. Close to Windhelm, nestled against the mountain chain to the east. “So I assume you’re going there to serve them roast deer and a bottle of Blackbriar reserve?”

“Close,” Skjor said with a grin. “We’re going to tear them to bits.”

“Sure that’s necessary?”

Farkas nodded, sitting down at the table opposite Keljarn. “Them or us, friend.”

“You’ve already seen,” his brother said, “how they actively hunt us, set traps for us. They want us dead, and they will not stop until they achieve their goal, or they’re dead themselves.”

Silence fell while Njada set the mead and cups on the table. Only when she’d gone again, did Skjor down his cup in two big gulps, stand up and say, “I’m going to scout ahead. When Aela’s ready, you two come after me so we can decide on our plan of attack.”

“You’re going alone?” Keljarn said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Skjor laughed. “It’s the Companions, milk drinker! Everything we do is dangerous.”

“I’ll go with you now if you – ”

Skjor shook his head. “I move faster on my own.”

“Careful,” Farkas said with a grin. “Last guy who said that got a crossbow bolt in the back of the head.”

Skjor chuckled and then said, “Farkas and Vilkas stay here to defend Jorrvaskr. You and Aela come after me. Then we kick the Silver Hand right out of Skyrim.” Not waiting for an answer, he stomped off to his room, collected his things and walked out, sparing the others only a brief, grim nod.

“Skjor will be fine,” Farkas said. “Have some bread, you’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

They ate while Farkas and Vilkas explained the way to Gallows Rock (which Keljarn didn’t mention he knew already), and as he finished his last hunk of bread and dried meat, he saw Aela enter the mead hall. It looked like she’d never even been in the Underforge, let alone as a massive, hairy juggernaut of destruction. She briefly joined them, scoffing down several strips of dried meat at once, then nodding to Keljarn, with a full mouth saying, “Let’s go.”

Keljarn didn’t have a lot of things to collect, and neither did Aela, and after around fifteen minutes, they found themselves at the door of Jorrvaskr, ready to follow Skjor, walking through the city of Whiterun, its usual bustle died down, the city lying calm and tranquil in the night, with only the occasional torch-holding guard walking past and nodding a greeting. It’d have been something Keljarn had looked forward to with nervous anticipation, spending the whole night with Aela and no one else, but the looks she’d given Skjor told her he’d waste his time trying. Stupid, stupid. But then, there were other fish in the sea and that.

Just as he thought that, Aela broke the silence they walked in, saying, “I’m not going to boast about my female intuition here, but I do think Ria’s got a certain interest in you.”

“Really?” Keljarn asked. He certainly hadn’t seen anything of the kind. And besides, it wasn’t Ria he hoped had an interest in him. “I think she’s just glad she’s no longer the newest member.”

Aela gave a lopsided smile. They were out the gates of Whiterun now, feeling the cold night air on their faces as they walked across the rolling plains. The mountains were a black formation against the dark blue of the night, looking impossibly far. “Oh no. It’s not just that. I see her looking at you all the time when she thinks no one sees.”

“Oh.” Hm, that was a bit awkward. “Well, um... she’s nice and all, but she’s not really...”

“Your cup of mead. I know,” Aela said with a nod. Her boots tocked on the wood of the bridge they were crossing. “No one else in your life, though?”

That was a strange question. Didn’t people always ask that when they had an interest themselves? Of course, Aela clearly didn’t, but why did she ask then? He mentally kicked himself for hoping. “No, I’m a gay bachelor at the moment. Not really looking, but not minding if something comes along. You know.”

“M-hm.”

Even though Keljarn knew he didn’t want to hear the answer, he asked anyway. “What about you? No brawny blonde Nord demigod waiting for Aela to come home?” He sounded like an idiot. It wasn’t often that happened to him. Nine, he really was crushing.

“Not really, no,” Aela said, looking straight ahead. Hope flared up in Keljarn’s chest, but it proved vain when Aela looked at the ground, grinned like an embarrassed teen and said, “At least, not yet.”

Well, that was that. It was, in a way, good that he knew it for sure now. No time or effort wasted in hoping and speculating. And he’d already been made a Companion in such a short time, and been offered to join the Circle. Couldn’t win them all.

They walked on, Keljarn telling Aela about his childhood, about his mixed heritage, about his teenage years when his long hair had gone a premature gray, about his reasons for coming back to Skyrim, and all those things, while Aela nodded and m-hm’ed in response, sometimes taking over with some history of her own. Despite having to stow his hopes back in his cupboard, Keljarn enjoyed the time with her, just talking and getting to know each other. Even though this wild beauty (with the slightly scary ability to shapeshift into a terrible monster) had already set her sights on someone else, it was relaxing and pleasant to just build a friendship. The feeling would keep nagging, but just having a good time together was a lot already. It almost made him forget they were on the way to kill off a group of werewolf-hunters.

“Should be on that hilltop there,” Aela pointed out. When Keljarn saw nothing at all, she added with a chuckle, “Sharper senses is a little side benefit of becoming a supposed ‘bloodthirsty monster’.”

“Yes, yes, alright, I take it back,” Keljarn said, grinning at the morning air. “So weren’t we supposed to meet Skjor somewhere around here?”

Aela nodded. “Yes, and it worries me.”

“Well... it’s not like he can’t take care of himself, right?”

“No, of course, but... he shouldn’t have come without a shield-brother.”

“He said he moved – ”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted him. “He prefers to work alone.” She gnawed at her lower lip. “I hope nothing happened to him.”

Keljarn obviously couldn’t answer that question, so he just said, “Come on, let’s go see, we’ll find him.”

Dawn was lighting the dark blues at the horizon, and they could see a bit more as they quietly sneaked up the hill, Aela pointing out the best side of approach, using her ‘sharper senses’ to discern which side would be less visible to the Silver Hand members on the hilltop. As they climbed the mossy rocks, weaving between the pine trees, Keljarn briefly realized that he was going to kill people of whom he only knew what these people had told him, but he pushed the thought away.

“Up there,” Aela whispered, stopping her approach. She took cover between the two pine trees near her and motioned for Keljarn to do the same. He hid behind a rock and peered over it, seeing two shapes standing on the hilltop, talking to each other. Aela made the redundant gesture of a finger over her lips.

They waited for a tense half minute, and then the two shapes moved on, going out of sight.

Aela nodded and they resumed their creep up the hill., their boots making almost no sound on the moss. They were so close now, they could hear the murmur of talking voices.

And then, suddenly, the loud screaming whine of a dog being tortured.

No, not a dog. A wolf.

Aela uncoiled like a spring, sending her body racing up the hill, drawing her bow in the process. Keljarn followed a moment later, hoping he wasn’t just charging to his own death.

With a roar, Aela reached the top of the hill and let fly. Keljarn also made it and ran past her, seeing the first of the hunters drop with an arrow through his throat. A hunter had gotten over her surprise and lunged at him, but Keljarn’s axe went under her clumsy blow, chopping into her abdomen and coming back out with red, ropy guts trailing behind it, their previous owner whirling around like a burst rag doll. In his speed, Keljarn only saw a spray of red as he charged past her. The other hunter set himself against the charge, and Keljarn body-slammed against his shield, bowling them both over. The rolled over the grass and fallen pinecones, and Keljarn delivered a hard punch to his opponent's nose, stunning him before bringing his axe down and splitting the man's head like a log, cracking the skull in two, bright red and yellow brain tissue splatting out. The man's split head still moved, the jaw working feebly as Keljarn got back to his feet and deflected a hard sword blow. His foot lashed out, catching his enemy between the legs. The man wheezed and fell back, and Keljarn let his axe come down, getting it stuck in the torso of the hunter. The man gurgled, went to his knees, and fell down as Keljarn kicked him off the blade of his axe.

Aela, meanwhile, had dispatched her other opponent as well, stabbing her in the eye with her dagger. Keljarn was in time to see her twist the knife in the other woman's skull. Feebly clawing at Aela's hand, the hunter fell down.

“That's that,” she said grimly. “Now we have to... Oh, Nine, no, _no_!”

Her face panicked, she suddenly rushed forward. Keljarn's eyes followed her path and fell on the wooden frame, hastily erected, and the heavy ropes coiled around it. And in the frame, the creature hung in a splayed position, red blood running thick through its black fur.

“Talk to me! Talk to me!” Aela shouted at the werewolf, but there was no response. Keljarn thought briefly to tell her this might not be Skjor, but then he saw the werewolf's face, and the white glass eye in one of the socket.

The torture inflicted on the late Companion was horrible, nauseating. His eye teeth were pulled, hands were hacked off, and they had apparently been in the process of flaying him alive, half the skin of his torso cut away, hanging from his body in a bloody flap, the muscles behind showing in horrible raw red.

“Skjor! Skjor!” Aela wailed. “What have they done to you!”

“Aela,” Keljarn said quietly, more to say something than to actually be of use, “There's nothing we can do for him anymore. His pain is over, he's free now.”

Aela stood looking at the tortured werewolf, breathing hard through her nose. “They'll pay for this,” she growled. “They'll... they'll...”

“Aela – ”

Skjor's wolf head briefly moved, his eye wobbling and then fixating on Aela.

“Skjor! Skjor, don't worry, we'll... Keljarn! Keljarn, heal him! You can cast spells, _do it_!”

It was no use, Keljarn knew, and he was certain that Skjor knew it too, but he still prepared his feeble healing spell. It would only prolong his suffering, but Aela needed him to do everything he could, even if it was useless. He concentrated on the flowing energies of nature, in the air all around them, and gathered them so they could be directed at the weeping, unimaginably painful wounds covering his new brother in arms.

“Wait, wait,” Aela said hoarsely. “Stop.”

Skjor's head feebly moved from side to side. His destroyed maw tried to move and make sounds, but he hadn't the strength.

Both Keljarn and Aela knew what he meant, and Aela drew her dagger from its sheath, still red with the blood of the dead hunters, and pushed it straight between Skjor's ribs, ending the Companion's suffering.


	18. Siari: Mourning Never Comes

  **SIARI**

**Mourning Never Comes**

**Sanctuary**

 

“Awh, Festus, you’re talking crazy again, you old codger.”

“Not so much of the old there,” the old mage retorted, “you ancient crone.”

Babette laughed. “At least I still have my looks. So anyway, you all think dying of poison is less painful than a dagger through the heart?” Siari stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb with her arms crossed, listening to the conversation.

“Well,” Gabrielle said back, “it depends on the poison, but yes.” The Dunmer had arrived a day after Siari’s enlistment, and during her five months of training, Siari had gotten along rather well with her. Well, if you could call it that. Gabrielle found Siari’s silence her best quality, and wasn’t afraid to say so.

Babette chirped. “You guys are so short-sighted. Just because a person isn’t screaming and flailing, doesn’t mean they’re in pain.”

“I think you’re all full of shit,” Nazir said, shouldering past Siari and sitting down at the table, picking up an apple by stabbing it with his knife. Because why use your hands when you can use a knife and feel impressive. “Only one not talking nonsense is her over there,” he pointed his chin at Siari. “And if she could, she’d probably make just as little sense as you do.” Heh, Nazir always wanted to give himself the air of the Only Sane Man. They all indulged him usually, because it made it that much more fun to act childish.

Babette rolled her eyes. “Sound the alarms,” she said in a bored voice. “Party Pooper Nazir has entered the building.”

“Speaking of party pooping.” Nazir said, ignoring the ridicule, “It’s been five months now, hasn’t it?” He was speaking to Siari, and she nodded in return. Nazir bit the apple and said with his mouth full, “means you’re ready for your first pro contract. I’ve spoken to Astrid and she’s given me the go-ahead. Means you’re off my back tomorrow.”

Siari knew he was just giving himself an attitude. The man, along with the others, had trained her in just about every aspect of assassination, Babette teaching her how to blend in, how to act inconspicuous and get close enough for the kill, Gabrielle teaching her about potions and poisons, and Nazir sparring with her to teach her to handle herself if she did get found out. Veezara had taught her to sneak, and she’d taken to that surprisingly well. The Argonian had joked that she was quiet in the two ways that mattered. Festus had tried to teach her magick, but a few frustrating days later, they’d both concluded she had exactly zero magickal aptitude.

Getting to know everyone had been a bit of an ordeal in the beginning, especially having to ‘explain’ to everyone why she was so quiet, and then being guaranteed to be asked to show it, rolling her eyes every time and opening her mouth, being treated to a grimace from everyone who saw the remains of her tongue in the back of her mouth. Well, except Arnbjorn, but she assumed nothing could faze him. Arnbjorn scared her. _Really_ scared her. Not just the werewolf thing. Sometimes she saw him looking at her with a look of unconcealed suspicion. The fact that he always addressed her as either ‘rabbit leg’ or ’chicken breast’ or ‘veal cutlet’ (or the withering ‘nub-tongue’ when he was angry) didn’t help either.

Astrid had made sure everyone accepted her though, and in most cases, it was pretty easy. Almost impossible to offend people if you couldn’t speak. Babette had taken her under her undersized wing immediately, calling Siari her ‘young protégée’, and Festus, in his psychotic way, seemed to be the type to get along with everyone, just like Veezara. Gabrielle had been a bit more reserved, but she’d thawed after a while. And Nazir, well, Nazir kept giving himself an attitude of not caring about her at all, but his diligence and patience while training her showed he cared much more than he let on.

But her first professional contract tonight. She felt herself going all giddy at the prospect. A bit nervous too, but killing the beggar had gone easily enough. She’d never been worried about hesitating, or growing soft-hearted, but she worried all the more about botching the job, or making it sloppy and unprofessional. She wanted her new brothers and sisters to be proud of her, not to think of her as an embarrassment, or worse, a failure. She refused to lose this family now that she’d finally found it.

Still, no reason to think things would go south. She’d been well trained, and the gear she’d gotten would help immensely. It was enchanted. _Enchanted!_ She had never in her life dared to hope she’d possess something _enchanted_. The supple leather chestpiece had a strange texture, as if it adapted to the background when she was hiding, and the gloves and boots could cling to just about any surface if the wearer focused enough and made her hands and feet make contact just the right way. She’d trained enough to be able to climb walls without fear, and if she trained more, she was certain she’d make the skill of climbing ceilings her own. The boots and gloves were unique, Astrid had told her. Everyone had the same chestpiece, but boots and gloves were all different. Astrid’s gloves, for instance, let her throw daggers with jaw-dropping accuracy, tailored to her preferred method of killing. Babette’s boots let her leap fast and far, good for either a surprise pounce or a quick escape. And these were Siari’s: the leather gloves with studs on the knuckles and the second halves of the index, thumb and ring finger removed for better manipulation, and her fortified, but still completely noiseless boots that fit so snugly around her foot and lower leg that they hurt if worn longer than eight hours. And then there was her mask, the same mask they all had, enchanted to muffle breathing sounds while still letting air through comfortably. Every joint of every piece of armour was treated with a dulling compound and padded and muffled to minimize sound. It was assassin’s garb if ever there was any. And it was finally Siari’s turn to put it on, not for training, but for real.

Nazir saw her enthusiasm and smirked. “Well, good to see you’re eager. I can give you the details now if you don’t mind people hearing?”

Siari shrugged. Of course she didn’t mind. They were _family_.

He bit another chunk off the apple. Good for him that these apples weren’t like the ones in Cheydinhal, used to poison an entire Brotherhood chapter. They’d died in horrible agony, killed by their newest member, who’d declared to have been following the commands of the Night Mother, a shadowy and enigmatic spirit or goddess or demon commanding the Dark Brotherhood. Though belief in the Night Mother was absolute, opinions were divided as to the veracity of the recruit’s claim, including here, in the Skyrim Sanctuary. Whatever the case, the entire chapter had been wiped out, and the new recruit had disappeared.

“Someone in Markarth performed the Dark Sacrament,” Nazir said, again with his mouth full, taking Siari back to the present. “Young apothecary’s assistant. She’ll be found in, you guessed it, the apothecary. Again, it’s the assistant you need, not the owner.” He bit the apple again. “Shouldn’t be difficult. Owner’s old and ugly, assistant’s young and supposedly one of the prettiest women in Markarth.”

“That so?” Festus said. “Perhaps I should accompany our young fledgling, to make sure she does the job well?”

Siari grinned, Babette let out a knowing chuckle, and Nazir was onto him as well. “Nice try, old geezer, but you’re needed in Falkreath. Besides, she’ll do just fine on her own. Since this is your first job,” he said, back to Siari, “I’ve arranged with Astrid that you get to keep the full pay. Customary. From then on, you pass the pay for all your contracts to the Brotherhood, and we pay you from that money. Ensures that everyone gets paid fairly.”

Siari nodded, then motioned for him to go on.

“Right. So, there’s not much information apart from the client’s name, but she’ll be sure to tell you who needs to die, and what the specifics are. Girl’s been running her mouth, wants her ex-lover killed, or something. She’ll be generous, they always are. That’s all I can tell you for now, hoof it to Markarth and see the apothecary. If she’s as tasty as they claim, don’t forget to mention I’m single.”

Siari raised an eyebrow. Mention? Nazir flapped his hand and said, “Ah, you know, just... just write her a note or something.”

Yes, she’d file that objective under ‘optional’. She went back to her room, which she shared with Babette and Gabrielle, and started to pack. There were a lot of helpful documents in the Sanctuary’s book stands, and among them was a nice list of all the things one should pack on a job, according to duration, objective, expected challenges, and so forth. This job was pretty much unknown, but Siari didn’t think she’d need climbing gear or a tent or anything of the sort. Markarth wasn’t that far away, and it was better to travel light so she could jog most of the way there. She packed fresh undergarments and a few dry snacks for the road, and that was it.

After being told goodbye and good luck by Astrid, she left the Sanctuary and was on her way, jogging along, first through the surrounding woods, then across the plains of Whiterun, past some freaky jester-type who asked her to help him get his cart back on the road, and who she’d simply ignored. When she skirted the city, she saw the freshly-slain cadaver of a giant lying sprawled on the grass. That must have been a battle. She stopped at a windmill, eating a chunk of biscuit in the shade and letting her muscles rest, and then she was off again, running half the way there and paying a few septims for a stay in a farm just off the road.

She reached Markarth the next day, in the afternoon. The trip had felt wonderful, her spirits kept high by the realization that she was helping her brothers and sisters. That she’d be doing so by taking a person’s life didn’t even occur to her.

Markarth was a city made of heavy, thick-walled stone buildings, most of them nestled against a rock face. In fact, the entire city lay against a rock wall, making it impervious to assault and even inaccessible except from one side. Green moss crept up the buildings, but nobody seemed to mind. The shallow canals that ran along the narrow streets had clear, ice cold water in them, and Siari didn’t pass up the opportunity to take a drink, uncaring how people would see her.

The next thing she did was tap one of the town guards on the shoulder. The man was bored anyway, so might as well bother him instead of the working man.

“Yes, young lady?”

Making her most harmless face, she held up the picture she’d drawn in charcoal before leaving, of a mortar and pestle with a big ‘A’ underneath.

“Ah, you’re looking for the Apothecary?”

Siari smiled and nodded.

“Follow this alley upwards, then take a left. Apothecary’s the third house.”

With a short bow of thanks, she walked up, climbing the steep alleyway until she came to an intersection. She took the left and indeed, there it was, third house, with a signboard hanging from it featuring, yes, a mortar and pestle. The Hag’s Cure.

Right, no more fun in the sun now. This was serious. She’d have to make an impression. Sinister, but not overdramatic. Professional, but not arrogant. Neutral, but not unwilling. Tying her brown hair back in a ponytail would make her look more severe. Nothing she could do about the straight-cut fringe over her forehead, but no matter. She swallowed, then pushed the door open, finding herself in a gloomy alchemy shop, with shelves stacked with plants, minerals, and all other kinds of substances. An old woman with wicked facial tattoos stood behind the counter, grinding ingredients in a mortar, while a younger woman with a horizontal tattooed stripe across the bridge of her nose was conversing with a customer, resuming her explanation after being interrupted by the old woman. “… past Solitude, keep following the shoreline East, you’ll reach Winterhold eventually.”

The owner of the shop let out a grunting sigh of disapproval and resumed her potion-making.

The man, meanwhile, a twenty-ish Nord with sand-coloured curls, abruptly turned on his heels without even muttering a word of thanks, and stomped out, shoulder-checking Siari as he did so. Asshole.

“Yes, can I help you?” the young woman asked, smiling at Siari. Young, apothecary’s assistant, and great-looking, yep, this was certain to be her. Siari simply remained silent, hoping just a marked stare would convey the message.

And oh yes, it did.

The girl’s breathing briefly stalled and then she nervously said, clearly improvised, “Oh you’re, you’re here for the, the delivery. It’s in the uh, back room, I’ll show you.”

Siari said nothing and followed the assistant to the back of the store, where she quickly unlatched a door, let Siari in, and then closed it behind her. “You’re... you’re with them, right?”

Siari crossed her arms and cocked her head, but remained silent. She decided to make it her trademark. It wouldn’t be a difficult one to uphold either. Maybe in time, people knew immediately who they were dealing with if they were met with a cold, stony silence. A girl could hope.

“Sorry,” the assistant said. “I didn’t know, I mean, I wasn’t even sure it worked. And... well, I hadn’t expected someone so young.”

Siari raised an impatient eyebrow. She had to look tough, detached and confident.

“Of course, the, uh... the contract.” The girl sat down and took a breath, her cheeks flushed with red. “It’s... it’s like this. I need someone killed.”

The best response to that was an impatient sigh, and so Siari did just that. She had to make sure the woman got the impression she was dealing with a trained killer, not a rookie.

“Yes, yes, of course, you already know that.” She sighed and looked at the ground. “Alain Dufont. He’s... my former lover. Broke it off with him when I found out he was leading a bunch of cutthroats. Bastard made me give myself away to a murderer.” She looked up at Siari. “I need him hunted and put down like the dog that he is.”

Well, well. This pretty princess had some spark in her after all. Siari gave a short nod.

“He’s... he usually hangs around an old Dwemer ruin with his murdering, thieving friends. Raldbthar. That’s where it is. In the mountains just northeast of here. Can’t miss it. I don’t care about his friends, it’s just Alain who needs to die. Of course, if you want to enjoy yourself cutting their throats as well, I won’t be sad.”

With a shrug, Siari showed her she didn’t care one way or the other either. If one got in the way, she’d have to kill him too, but better not to take risks and leave them alone if she could. She had enough to go on for now, but there was one more matter. She held out her hand and made a come-hither gesture with her fingers.

“You want... payment now?”

Siari’s face told her enough, apparently. All up front, Astrid had made it very clear. All up front or the client gets a free murder – his own. “I’ll... have to see if... I can’t just, I mean, I have the money, but could you come by my house to pick it up tonight?”

She supposed she could indulge her client that much.

“Thanks. It’s just hard to hand you a big purse right here in the store.”

Siari nodded. Sure.

“The uh, not speaking... is that mandatory Brotherhood stuff? Because you’re making me seriously uncomfortable,” the woman said with a guilty face. Good, that was the intention. Still, Siari pointed only at herself.

“Oh. So just you, then?”

Yes. Just her.

“Tonight, then?” She quickly scrawled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Siari. I’m good for it, I promise.”

Siari only gave an aloof nod as she slipped the paper in her pocket. You’d better be good for it, potion-pusher. She had no intention or desire to ignore what Astrid had told her.

“Here,” the woman said, taking a package off the shelf and handing it to Siari. “You came for a delivery, right?”

Oh. Right.

Nothing stopped her from doing some reconnaissance while she waited for the evening, Siari supposed. The sun was warm for the time of year, and she’d still have light for a few hours, so she left the city again and walked to the northeast, dumping the package of useless herbs by the side of the road. Indeed, the jutting tower of a Dwemer ruin was clearly visible, sticking out of the mountain face, partially collapsed. This must be... that place with the unrememberable name. Where her mark was. She wasn’t afraid or nervous. Well, maybe just a bit. But mostly excited. She already imagined herself coming back to the Sanctuary, being asked by Astrid or Nazir if the job had ended well, and giving a self-satisfied nod, answering the way they expected. It’d be the first of a long line, of that she was sure. She would not let her new family down.

She’d walked for about an hour, so it was time to head back to Markarth, treat herself to a warm dinner, and go pick up the gold. Or stab that potion pusher in the tit. Either was fine with her, as long as the job didn’t go sour because she’d made a mistake.

Putting on her cold killer face again, Siari rapped on the door of the woman’s house. The assistant’s face appeared in the crack in the doorway as it opened. “Come in,” she hissed. “Quickly.”

Siari made an unimpressed face and went inside.

“Here it is,” the woman whispered even though there was no one there to hear. “Three hundred, right?”

Siari gave a curt nod and took the purse, picking out a random septim and setting her teeth into it to make sure it was genuine.

“I uh, I know better than to try and scam the Brotherhood,” the woman said with a nervous chuckle. “Alain’s got a goatee and a ponytail. So that’s all you need, then?”

Siari hefted the purse in her hands. The weight felt right. She nodded, turned, and left.

She walked the distance back to the Dwemer ruin, but this time she wouldn’t return to Markarth. She didn’t need to report to her client or any of that silliness. She’d find out soon enough that her ex-beau had been shanked. Gossip always travelled fast, no matter the size of the city.

Now, time for business.

 _Alright_ , she thought to herself, _let’s do this_. She pulled the hood over her head and pulled the mask up, hiding everything but her eyes. Now she was in full assassin mode. She had to admit to herself that it felt pretty badass. She slid her dagger from its sheath and took it in an underhanded grip. Finally, time to put her training into practice.

The Alain character headed a band of cutthroats, so he was bound to not be alone. And even though she felt tough as nails, she had to repeat to herself that these people weren’t helpless kittens. They’d probably cut off more than her tongue if they got their hands on her, and despite Nazir’s training, she knew she’d be sliced to ribbons in a straight fight. She’d have to remain unseen, at least until the deed was done.

Hunkering behind a rock, she watched the metal door that led to the ruins. No one came in or out for more than an hour, and she figured the jolly band had turned in for the night. The stars told her it was around midnight. Just a little longer, until she was sure they all slept. Hadn’t posted a guard, the losers. Part of Siari’s training had been to look out for guards and subdue or kill them, but it wasn’t even necessary in this case. They were making it easy. With any luck, they’d drink themselves into a stupor and that would make it even more of a cakewalk.

She waited for a few minutes longer, then left her hiding place. She crept closer to the door and encountered her first obstacle. The damn thing was locked. She took out the lockpicks she carried as part of her equipment, but then realized there was no lock to pick. Hmm.

She all but slapped herself on the forehead when she saw the smoothly-polished button set into the wall. Of course, Dwemer were obsessed with machinery and relays, so they wouldn’t have a normal way to open a door, no, it had to be with a button hooked to a mechanism. Siari rolled her eyes and slapped her hand on the button.

The door opened with a loud metallic grating, which made Siari wince. Seriously? These wankers couldn’t oil the hinges every now and then? Imagine having to hear this noise every day. Of course, it did serve as an efficient warning system, and Siari quickly darted back to her hiding spot to see if anyone came out. No one did. She permitted herself to hope her guess of a drunken stupor was actually accurate. Imagine.

She sneaked closer again, and crept inside. No one was in the antechamber, and she silently went on, past the polished, gray stone walls set with bronze and copper ornaments. The Dwemer ruin had an extremely high ceiling, as they all did, and this made the rooms feel narrower than they actually were. Against the wall, a strange automaton lay motionless, its bronze limbs pitted, bent and scratched. The ruin had apparently not given itself freely to these cutthroats.

She went through an arch, not making a sound, and found herself in an enormous room, the ceiling even higher than before. The room itself was vast, at least fifty metres long and just as wide. She stood at the top of a short step, just a metre in height, and aimed at her were two heavy ballistae, which the Dwemer must have used against attackers. She quickly, silently, side-stepped out of the siege weapons’ aim and then took better stock of her surroundings. In the middle of the room, around twenty metres ahead, was a small fire, with a cooking pot suspended above it from a flimsy wooden frame. Around the fire lay several bags, long and narrow. Sleeping bags.

Oh this, this was too good to be true.

Siari’s eyes went from the sleeping bags to the ballistae and back again. Astrid had told her to not just depend on her knife, but to always look for ways to use the environment to her advantage, citing the story of a Dark Brotherhood member in Cyrodiil (who may or may not have been the new recruit who’d wiped out the chapter), and this member’s creative means of dispatching a Bruma citizen by making a hunting trophy fall on the mark’s head, impaling him with the sharp horns. No one had known it had been an assassination.

They’d know now, but in this case, it didn’t really matter much. No one would investigate a dead outlaw or two. Besides, these dunderheads had probably made so many enemies the list of suspects would be endless.

Now, the ballista. First thing was to see if it could be rotated, and how far. Siara inspected the foot of the device and saw grind marks go all the way around. Haha, good! Now then, how to fire this thing. It had two large handles, probably the cranequin for drawing the heavy string, and another handle set into the body, a lever that had to be pushed down. That would be the trigger mechanism.

Oh man, this was going to be a joy to behold.

Siari took hold of one of the ballistae and rotated it on its foot so it faced the collection of sleeping bags. The blockheads hadn’t even woken up from the grinding sound of the rotating ballista. Even better. She checked to see the string was drawn (it was) and that a bolt was loaded (it was). Good, good. She tiptoed to the other ballista and readied it in a similar fashion.

Her heart raced with anticipation at seeing her cunning plan unfold.

Peering down the thing’s sights, she trained it on the collection of sleeping bags. Plan was to shoot one bolt straight into the group, probably impaling a few of them (rude awakening right there!) and then scooting over to the other ballista while the survivors got to their feet, and then fire one massive bolt right in the face of whoever had a goatee and a ponytail.

With a grin, she closed her fingers around the lever and pulled.

A loud _blang_ sounded as the mechanism released, but the bow of the ballista flew off, and the bolt was propelled upwards, going end over end before hitting the ground with a series of painfully loud clangs. Damn it damn it!

“Hey what the sodding shit?”

This had woken them alright.

“Assassin!”one of the men screamed in a panicked voice. “Assassin! Get her!”

More thugs rose now, all in their sleeping clothes, which for some meant clothes and all, and for others meant just undergarments. One of those men had a goatee, and wore his hair in a ponytail, which was messed up from sleeping. That was her mark!

But daedra damn it, that ballista! The second one had better work or she’d be in really, _really_ big trouble.She ran over to it as fast as she could, determined not to give the thugs time to grab their weapons and come after her.

An arrow zipped past her, clinking off the wall behind. Oh great, one of them had a bow. She skidded to a halt behind the other ballista, and the gang leader knew what she was doing. Standing there in his loincloth, he swept his hand at his cronies. “Get down! Down!”

Oh, if only he’d followed his own advice. Siari ducked her head out of the way of another arrow and pulled the lever. _Please work_.

The ballista let fly, its massive bolt unerringly making a stripe through the darkness, impaling the only gang member still standing, lifting him off his feet, his arms and legs trailing behind him, and depositing him back on the ground several metres further, the bolt still embedded in his abdomen. The body came down, and dragged on by its momentum, was lifted up on the bolt that impaled it, then overbalanced and came down again.

The man was _dead._ Nobody survived such a horrible trauma.

“Get her!”

The other thugs jumped to their feet, fully aware the ballista was discharged. Siari abandoned her position and ran, the four remaining henchmen giving pursuit. There was a sharp pain in her shoulder as an arrow struck her, but from the corner of her eye, Siari saw it glance off and twirl end over end, blood spattering from it as it went. She stumbled from the impact but kept her footing. The next moment, she was back in the antechamber, and out of the bowman’s line of sight, leaving only three to deal with. She ran on, the footsteps of her pursuers behind her, and dashed through the still-open door, back into the night sky. Her legs took her down the mountain path, and another arrow zipped past her, this one nowhere near her. The dirt bag with the bow wasn’t a quitter, but she was too far now. She risked a look back. One of the thugs had given up already, and only two were pursuing her now. Just as she looked back, though, one of those two slipped, losing his footing on the edge of the path, and his weight and momentum dragged him over, sending him to a screaming, broken death on the sharp rocks tens of metres below. She heard him shriek as he went down, the cry cut short by a wet thudding sound. The sound of the falling body was repeated a few more times, the shrieking wasn’t.

The last pursuer was female, and much more lithe and in better shape than the others. She was gaining, Siari noticed as she looked back one more time. Shit, shit. This one would catch her and they’d both be too tired to fight, making it sure and certain who’d bite the dust. But the other thug’s grisly death had given her an idea. Abruptly, Siari pulled her weight to the side, throwing herself off the path.

She went with her head down, and slapped her hands against the overhanging rock wall, pulling her weight under the overhang. Her legs swung along, and she planted her feet against the rock as well, keeping her suspended by the overhang under the path. They’d think she’d just fallen to her death.

“Baste my butt, she went over!” Siari heard the woman pant.

There was a brief silence, and the woman shouted back, probably to the thug who’d stopped to catch his breath, “I don’t know, I can’t tell. Misty down there though. Nobody could have survived that.”

Siari remained suspended under the overhang, trying to pant as quietly as possible.

“I said I can’t see, dammit! What about Neruf?”

She could hear the other’s voice better now. He was apparently coming closer, to check for himself. “Neruf’s gone,” she heard a male voice say. “Can’t see his body for the mist, but rocks are red with blood where he went down. Morghen went to check on Alain.”

“Fuck, man,” the woman said. “And you can bet Alain’s dead too. Well, at least that little cunt burst apart on the rock face. We’ll go check when it’s daylight. Looking forward to seeing her guts draped over the rocks.”

Yeah, you keep looking forward to that, girl.

“Come on. Let’s go check on Alain,” the man said.

“What’s there to check on?” the female snapped back. “He’s fucking dead, you know that.”

A sigh. “He was an asshole. Not a big loss.”

“Who’d you think sent that little whore anyway? I bet it was that bitch from the apothecary. I say we – ”

“Ah, shut up,” the man said in an annoyed voice. “That dumb ninny doesn’t even know what an assassin is. And who cares. Like I said, he was an asshole, and now we can start for ourselves.”

Siari’s muscles began to burn. Were these two really going to chat the night away on this windswept mountain path? She set her teeth and hung on. Her shoulder, struck by the arrow, pulsated in pain, the muscles of her arm almost powerless.

“Come on, let’s go inside. Divide Alain and Neruf’s stuff.”

The woman suddenly sounded suspicious. “You’re not gonna stab me in the back, are you?”

“Of course not. Come on.”

Siari heard the voices coming from farther and farther. They’d given up. Good. Her calves and forearms burned from hanging on to the rock, at this almost-upside-down angle. When she was convinced they were far enough, she quietly let her boots detach from the rock and searched for footing. Her boots made contact with the stone below her, and she let her hands go too, so she stood upright on a jutting rock, still hidden under the overhang. Haha, suckers.

It was best not to head back up and go down the mountain path. It was only a descent of about thirty metres, and the rock face wasn’t entirely vertical, so with the help of her boots and gloves, she’d be able to descend without much risk. She took a quick breather, squatting on the rock, and then began climbing. It was a tough descent, but manageable, and even in the dark, she could see the hand- and footholds just fine, the waxing moon breaking through the clouds often enough for her to see what she needed to.

It took her about half an hour, and she was down, setting her feet down on the soft grass of the rolling Skyrim plains. Permitting herself a contented look up at the rock face she’d just descended, she took a moment to let her muscles rest, then took off her backpack for a drink of water from her canteen.

As she set the bottle to her lips, she saw a dark shape lying on the ground, around thirty metres further. The rock face above the shape was smeared with blood.

Huh. Seemed like her clumsy friend had come all the way down. She moved closer, still holding her canteen. And as she came closer, she saw that the shape moved. She was close enough to discern details now, and she saw that the man’s arms and legs lay at an awkward shape. One of his legs was bent like a strip of boneless meat. His head was broken, and his lower jaw had snapped, the two halves slipped over each other so his chin looked like a stone arch that had cracked under the weight. She could see it even though he had a beard, so that jaw must be completely collapsed.

The man’s eyes rested on her. One of his broken arms tried to raise itself, the forearm hanging limp like a dishrag. Broken bone jutted from the elbow. She knew what he was trying to say. Or better, trying to beg for.

Siari shook her head. He wasn’t getting any water. It was hers, and all he’d do with it was die with it sloshing around in his ruptured belly.

The eyes pleaded, but Siari simply stoppered her canteen and put it back in her bag. She supposed she should put the man out of his misery, but on the other hand, what would he have done to her if he’d caught her?

_No, you can just lie here and die on your own._

Just as Siari put her hand on her shoulder to see how badly the arrow had hurt her, she heard a _fwhap!_ behind her. She whirled around, startled by the sound, and saw another body lie behind her, this one of a woman with a knife in her back, her head split from a not-so-soft contact with the rock face, her brain forced out of her flattened skull in a red and gray cone. A little higher, draped over a jutting rock, hung a man with a quiver on his back.


	19. Acrus: Recovery

**ACRUS**

**Recovery**

**Student dormitory**

 

“Feeling better?”

Acrus could only utter a croaking “Urrrgh...”

“Well, at least you’re talking again.”

“If... you can call it talking,” Acrus said in a hoarse voice. His chest felt like a giant had stomped on it, along with his mammoth. What in Oblivion had happened to him?

Oh, right. The ruins under Saarthal. He’d retrieved an amulet from there, but he hadn’t really understood what it did or what it was about. They’d fought a draugr down there, and the damn walking corpse had propelled him across the cave, smack into the wall. He’d felt his ribs crack, that hedge wizard Brelyna had cast a shoddy excuse for a healing spell, and then they’d started to drag him outside. The pain had been so extreme he’d simply fainted, and from there, apparently, lapsed into sleep.

“Tolfdir cast a somniferous spell on you when they brought you back, in case you’re wondering how you got here. He figured it’d make the journey less painful for you.”

The voice was female, but not one he’d heard before. He tried to open his eyes, but the light stung so hard he closed them again.

“Hold on,” the voice said, then he heard the sound of footsteps and a curtain being drawn. “That should help.”

Acrus tried again, and this time the light was much less painful. The woman sitting next to his bed was middle-aged, with her brown hair worn back, the sides tied in two braids. There were two deep lines going from her nostrils to the sides of her mouth, giving her a perpetually annoyed look. Her voice and demeanour didn’t match her appearance, so far.

“Ah yes, you probably haven’t heard of me yet. Collette Marence,” she introduced herself. “Master Restorer here at the College.”

Erp, a lecturer. Better make sure he stayed in her good graces. “Thank you for your care, Master Restorer.”

“That’s... alright,” the woman said, slightly awkwardly. “I cast some simple spells for now, but you should be up and about in a few hours. Can’t guarantee the pain will be gone, though.”

“No, I... figured I wouldn’t be so lucky.”

She chuckled. “Oh, by the way, this is your dormitory. You’ll be sharing this room with Brelyna. It’s not customary to have students of mixed gender in a room, but...” the corners of her mouth went down, “we expect you both to behave.”

“We’ll be good,” Acrus merely said. Better with the cantrip-casting drow than with the slimy Khajiit or the dull Nord. She wasn’t exactly searing hot, but in case he needed some recreation, it was better to share a room with her than the others. “So, any news on that amulet I brought back from Saarthal?” He sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, despite the pain.

The master healer winced. “You shouldn’t move too much. And Tolfdir will be in soon, ready to tell you what needs to be done now. I told him not to tire you out too much, so I hope he won’t talk our ear off.”

“He’s... prone to do that, isn’t he?” Whoops, he shouldn’t have said that.

But the mage laughed, again contradicting her stern and stodgy appearance. “Yes, Tolfdir has so much knowledge to share, he’d talk all day if we let him, Aedra bless him.” Seemed this one wasn’t so bad. “Anyway, he’s right outside, so I won’t keep you both waiting.”

The woman rose and opened the door. “Not too long, Tolfdir.”

The old man all but ignored her and rushed inside, a giddy look on his face. “My boy, you’ve found some amazing things.”

“Yeah. Like broken ribs.”

“Oh pish,” Tolfdir dismissed him. “Master Restorer Marence will make sure you’re up and about in no time. How then, this amulet, and this orb”, the man went on, putting the two objects in Acrus’ lap, “we don’t know what they are yet, but you should bring them to the Archmage.”

Whoa, he was going to meet the Archmage? Giggity. “Me?” he asked, trying to appear as humble as he could. “I’m just an Apprentice, I – ”

“Oh wash,” Tolfdir dismissed again, still excited from the finds. “The amulet clearly reacts to you, and the orb, well, you were the one who identified it as a power source, so you should be the one to bring it to the Archmage. Can you walk?”

“I... might be able to.” He tried to sit up again, but the pain made him lie back. “Or not.”

“The prospect of being introduced to the Archmage should give you strength, lad,” the Alterer said with a cheeky grin. “But very well, we’ll give it some time. Collette will make sure you feel better soon. Have some rest, her healing spells keep working for a while after they’re cast, so you’ll feel better after an hour or two.”

With that, the man grinned again, and held up a just-you-wait finger at Acrus. Then he silently rushed back outside.

So he was going to meet the Archmage. Oh, that would make the other students green with envy. They’d think twice about laughing at him. Snivelling dabblers.

As Acrus thought those thoughts of sweet and just recognition, he fell asleep. 

 


	20. Roë: Bloodline

 

**ROË**

**Bloodline**

**A cold, lonely path**

 

She awoke. Felt alive. How was that even possible? She clearly remembered dying, her life fading as she tried to stay awake, Serana’s cold hand in hers, equally cold. She’d died, she was certain of it.

Something was wrong though, she was awake, and experiencing her surroundings, but things were different. Her vision seemed a bit sharper than before, and when she moved her eyes, the image moved with it, but distorted somehow, as if all the shapes she saw flashed little saw teeth as they moved. The colours weren’t right either. Colder, and more contrasted. She only saw the ceiling of the cave she was in, but she knew the colours weren’t right. Not like they had been before.

And there was something else. Something she now became aware of. That pulse, so familiar that you no longer felt it when you were alive, and only became aware of it when it was gone. The familiar pulse of a heartbeat was gone.

So this was really happening. She’d succumbed to vampirism and joined the ranks of those horrors that had drained Gethor. And so many others. She was a monster now, an abomination, a walking dead that fed on the living, and that burned when the sunlight struck her. Would she have to spend her life – no, her unlife – fighting the monster inside her?

She sat up, surprised at how easily it went. Her muscles weren’t tired. She wasn’t even sleepy. As if she’d simply opened her eyes rather than awakened. She’d never be sleepy again, she supposed, and the thought made her immensely sad.

Where was Serana? How many hours had passed since her death and this unholy mockery of a resurrection? She got to her feet, again with surprising ease, and realized she was in a cave, probably dragged in there by Serana. Like a dead animal. She heard the wind howl outside, and what little light was in the cave, came from a lantern set on the ground a few metres farther.

Lanterns gave off yellow light, didn’t they? This light was pale, white. Almost blue. The flame of the lantern looked cold instead of the warm yellow it was supposed to give off. Everything was just so cold.

A wave of sadness washed over Roë and she sat down again, hiding her face in her hands. She was _dead_. She walked, and saw, and felt, but it was all cold and dull. Nothing looked alive, not even the flame dancing behind the glass of the lantern. Dead. Cold and dead. It would be this way forever, and it felt as if she couldn’t even remember what it had been like before. She didn’t even have the memory left.

Her shoulders hitched, but much as she needed to, she was unable to cry. Even that had been taken from her. She tried again, trying to push the tears out, but... nothing. It was all gone, she was nothing but a shell.

 _Not like this_ , she thought to herself. _Anything but this._

She snatched up the crossbow, loaded with a bolt, the string taut, and pushed the business end against her sternum. It would only hurt for one short moment, and then it would be over. All she had to do was pull the lever. That’s all she had to do. One moment of courage to squeeze the mechanism, and then the bolt would crush her sternum and impale her dead, rotting heart.

 _Go on_ , she told herself. _Before you turn into a monster._

But her fingers wouldn’t obey. It wasn’t a matter of courage, she was determined to end her own unlife, to transfix herself with the crossbow bolt and erase this abomination she had become. But her fingers, they simply refused. They _refused to move_.

“That won’t work,” a voice announced matter-of-factly behind her. “We’ve all tried it at least once. No easy way out for us.”

Roë dropped the crossbow, ashamed at being seen like this, trying to turn a weapon on herself. Serana stood behind her, her mouth and chin smeared with blood, the remains of a hare on her hand.

The blood on Serana’s chin was bright red. It was the only thing that had retained its former colour. A powerful thirst came over Roë and she felt herself compelled to leap at Serana and lick the blood from her face.

“Hey now,” Serana said, looking amused. “Don’t look at me like that. Look, I brought you one too.”

Her other hand came up, holding another hare by the hind legs, this one still alive and struggling in her grip. “Figured you might be hungry.”

Oh she was. Ravenous. She hadn’t felt it until now, but she wanted it, _needed_ it. She could hear the hare’s tiny heart beat a rapid cadence of panic, hear its blood pump through its little veins.

“Catch,” Serana simply said, and the hare flew toward her. Roë had never been the type to hunt and kill animals, but she caught the creature without any effort, her reflexes sharpened and her body moving exactly as she wanted it to. She only needed one hand to snatch the animal out of the air, and there it hung, upside down in her grip, whipping back and forth in the air.

“Now bare those little fangs,” Serana said, “and feed. It’s just an animal, so go ahead and drain it. Just like eating meat when you were alive.”

The beating of the little heart became overpowering in her ears, and the entire world shrunk to just her and the hare. She knew that if she gave in, she would be taking another step from which there was no return. But she was hungry, so hungry, and all that mattered was the blood that ran inside this small creature, warm and rapturous.

Before she even knew what she was doing, her arm brought the hare to her mouth, and she felt her mouth opening, then her fangs sinking in, biting past the taste of the rodent’s fur and crushing its little ribcage, splintering the bones and rupturing the organs beneath, the hot, rich blood spurting into her mouth and down her throat.

In terrifying ecstasy, she drank, gulping the red, living blood down her throat, swallowing it at a speed beyond any control or restraint, sucking the little thing dry until there was nothing more, and as she did so, the only thing she could do was realize what she had become, one thought calmly taking form amidst the uncontrolled ecstacy: _There’s no way back. This is what I’ve become, and this is what I’ll remain, forever._

The hare was dry, its existence now completely meaningless, and Roë let it drop to the ground.

“I imagine you’re absolutely terrified right now, aren’t you?” Serana asked.

Roë could do no more than nod.

“Good,” Serana said, giving a nod of her own. “It’s good that you’re scared. You should be. Too many new Vampires give themselves to their bloodlust, revelling in their new powers when they should be trying to control them.”

“How do you... control this?” Roë asked, scooping the blood running from her chin up with her fingers and licking them clean even as she asked the question. “It... just happened, and there was nothing I could do. I tried to resist it, but...”

“You’ll get better at it,” Serana said with a smile. “Nobody has any control over the urge the first time. That’s why I brought you a hare, and not a person. Fledglings without guidance, they sometimes make a human or elf their first prey, and... well, it doesn’t end well.”

“Why not?” Roë asked. “What’s the difference?”

Serana chuckled without humour. “Wish I knew. But fact is, if you feed from a sentient being, you should never, _ever_ kill when you feed. Animals are fine, but not people. Drink as much as you need, but don’t kill.”

Roë didn’t understand. “Why? I mean, it’s hard to imagine this... _condition_ giving a damn if it’s an animal or a person.”

“It is, but that’s the reality of it. So for now, we feed on animals only. Their blood’s weak and can’t sustain you for long, but it’ll do for now. You’ll need human blood as time goes on, but we need to wait until you have the urge under control.”

“What... what happens if you kill a person?” Roë asked, already knowing the answer.

“Then,” Serana said, “you become like the mindless, monstrous things you fought. Every time you overfeed, you become a little more like them. And every time it happens, it becomes even harder not to do it again.” Serana looked dead serious, the look of aloof amusement on her face gone. “Never kill when you feed.”

“I... never asked for this,” Roë said, feeling the sadness wash over her again. She sat down again and hugged her knees. “This can’t be happening. I had a life. I had a job. I had parents. Friends. A little corner house that was tiny but cozy... I don’t deserve this.”

Serana sat down beside her and Roë felt an arm around her shoulder. “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it. And you’re still you. I know you’re feeling... well, there’s no words for it, but I know you’re feeling that way now. But you’ll start over. Adapt to what you are. It becomes easier, trust me.”

“I don’t want it to be easier, I want it to be gone.”

“Well, that’s not an option, I’m afraid,” Serana said bluntly. “Now, speaking of friends, weren’t there people you needed to go and see?”

Yes. Yes there were. A flicker of hope flared up in Roë’s chest, even though she realized all too well that it was vain hope. Maybe the Dawnguard could cure Vampirism if it had just taken someone. Maybe they knew someone who could.

Yes, they should go back to the Dawnguard. It was the only chance she had.

“You’re right, they... they might know what to do,” she said to Serana. “They... study Vampires. If anyone knows what to do, it’s them.”

Serana rose and crossed her arms. “What do you mean, ‘what to do’? About what?”

Roë pointed at herself, “About this. Maybe they know of a way to cure it if it... you know, hasn’t been too long yet.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Serana said matter-of-factly, “but the world’s changed, so maybe someone found a way.” She shrugged. “Wouldn’t bet on it though.”

Roë stood up as well, allowing that tiny flicker of hope to make her decisions for her, even though she knew it was a vain hope, _knew_ it wasn’t possible. “We have to try. Will you come with me?”

“Sure,” Serana said. “I’m feeling responsible for what happened to you, and I still owe you a big one for getting me out of that sarcophagus. Let’s go, nighttime’s wasting.”

They emerged from the cave into the cold air. The blizzard had stopped and the wind had died down for the most part, making the weather tolerable. “So,” Roë asked, “is it true about daylight?”

Serana nudged her head down the road and they began walking. “Half true,” she explained as they walked. “On the whole, you’ve become much stronger, faster and more durable than you were when you were human.” She chuckled again, “Not that I really remember what that was like, but anyway, you’re much, _much_ harder to kill, and you have a much easier time killing those in your way.”

“I thought I should never – ”

“No, no,” Serana interrupted her. They were walking down a mountain path under a sky strewn with stars. Roë couldn’t even feel the awe she used to have when staring at the stars anymore. “Regular killing’s fine,” Serana told her. “Same as when you were human. Kill too many people, or for the wrong reasons, and you’ll lose your mind, like everyone does. It’s just when you feed that it’s so much more dangerous. Anyway, you’re much less vulnerable than you used to be.”

“I was told there were really specific weaknesses Vampires... _we_ Vampires have, though?” Roë asked.

Serana nodded. “Which way now?” Roë pointed to the east. No point trying to get to Dawnstar anymore. “Right. So yeah, there’s lots of myths, but there are things you _really_ need to look out for. Stuff that doesn’t hurt us is all this folklore junk. Garlic? Pft. A holy symbol? Shove it right up their nethers,” she said with a little laugh. “Running water? Hey, I bathe. Every chance I get.”

“Right.”

“Now, a beautiful sunrise? That’s trouble. Fire? That’s real trouble. Impalement? You catch a crossbow bolt to the heart and it’s all over, kiddo.”

Serana explained all she could to Roë as they walked, Roë listening intently, both to learn as much as she could, and to get her mind off this feeling of emptiness, of deadness inside of her. She had to believe the Dawnguard would know what to do, even though she knew it was in vain. The thing about sunlight had surprised her though. Serana had told her sunlight was immensely painful, and weakening, but it wasn’t deadly unless you threw all caution to the wind. That meant she’d be able to see the sun again. Not often, but just a few seconds was better than what she’d feared. Serana had chuckled and told her to trust her, she wouldn’t be that keen on seeing the sun anymore. Roë begged to differ. She had to.

Their path took them back east, to Fort Dawnguard. When dawn came, they holed up in an abandoned mine and spent the day there, their hunger slightly satisfied by the deer they’d shot and divided among each other. Roë dreaded to think what would have happened if Serana hadn’t been there. If she’d had to face this all alone. And despite the miserable state she was in, she did enjoy her time with Serana, her light-hearted attitude making the agony of Roë’s being bearable. Thank whatever gods that had abandoned her for Serana.

They awoke the next day, resuming their journey. They hadn’t slept, just lain in a comatose state. Serana explained that Vampires no longer sleep, they can just lie down, close their eyes and awaken the next night, not feeling refreshed or enjoying the calm of sleeping and dreaming, but just... making the time pass more quickly. There were no more dreams, either, Serana said. Yet another small joy she’d never know again. Another brief respite she could no longer flee to.

Serana talked Roë’s ear off, probably because she realized full well that Roë’s mind shouldn’t be left to wander, telling about herself, about how the world used to be before she was put away, about all the things she could think of, except one. When Roë had asked her how she’d become a Vampire, she’d looked away and said she didn’t want to talk about it. Roë’s attempt to press the issue had been met with a reaction that was almost outright hostility, so Roë had dropped the subject, and Serana had returned to her light-hearted self.

Another thing Serana had explained to Roë was how to hide her Vampirism. Vampires, at least the ones who retained their sanity and humanity, were able to pass for human if they were reasonably well-fed. If they concentrated on it, they could make humans believe they were one of them. Some perceptive types sometimes commented that they didn’t like the eyes they had, or that there was a bad hunger to them. But they were never able to put their fingers on it. It helped, because in order to peacefully feed on humans, a Vampire needed to be able to pass for one of them.

Roë had had an easy time learning to use that ability, and had promptly advised Serana to use it when they reached Fort Dawnguard. “They’ll need to be told gently,” she’d said. Stretching the truth a bit. Still, they wouldn’t hurt one of their own, even if that person wasn’t the same as she had been when she took off. And the fact still stood that the Dawnguard could learn much from Serana (and now her too), so that the brute Vampires could be kept under control and there could be a peaceful solution to this whole conflict.

They came to the secret entrance, now even more glaringly obvious to Roë’s Vampire senses, and found themselves on the steps leading to Fort Dawnguard. The same steps Roë had climbed a hundred lifetimes ago. With Kunod and Durak. Determined to fight the good fight and make the Vampires pay for Gethor. That she had to climb these stairs as one of Them now...

“Hey. Cheer up?” Serana pulled her from her thoughts. “Your friends might know of a way to help you, right?”

“Well, you too?” Roë assumed. “Right?”

“Me?” Serana laughed. “What makes you think I want to be helped? I already told you I’m fine with my condition. Learned to live with it. Well, ‘unlive’ with it, I guess.”

“Do you ever get used to this?” Roë asked incredulously. How did you get used to feeling empty inside? To no longer knowing simple joys? To only see coldness and sharpness? To having to drain the blood of living things to survive? “I mean, do you really?”

Serana shrugged. “I did.”

“Hold it right there.”

Roë felt her muscles instinctively tense in fear when she saw the crossbow aimed at her chest. It seemed her body knew perfectly well what was dangerous and what wasn’t. She knew the man, though, the bearded, long-haired Breton. It was the man Durak had hailed when they’d arrived, aeons ago. “Cer... Cerann?” she remembered with some difficulty. “It’s me, uh, Roë. You know? The new girl?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied her in the light of the torch. Then he lowered the crossbow “Oh, right, hadn’t recognized you. Not exactly an hour to expect a member returning.”

“I came back as fast as I could. Is Isran up? There’s someone he should see.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe. He doesn’t sleep much these days. Go on in, see for yourself. Sarafan, open the gate!”

A few seconds later, there was the sound of wood on wood as the bar was removed from the inside of the gate, and the enormous door was opened just enough for Roë and Serana to pass through.

“You sure that girl’s... entirely normal?” the Breton asked as they went through. “Something... strange about her eyes.”

“She’s perfectly fine,” Roë said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Serana flashed her most harmless smile, looking absolutely beautiful as she did so.

“Mm. And by the way, it’s Celann, not Cerann. Durak always gets it wrong.”

“Oh. I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

They headed inside, greeted by a dour nod from a Dawnguard member Roë hadn’t seen yet, and walked to the atrium.

“Strange place,” Serana said. “You’d think they’d take a few minutes to remove the cobwebs.” She tsk’ed. “Boys, huh?”

“They just got installed, actually. Still making the place ready for habitation.”

“Roë!” a friendly voice echoed through the keep. “You’re back!”

Before she could react, Kunod had grabbed her in a tight bear hug. He felt warm, magnetically so, and as he held her, she could hear his heart beat against her dead chest, hear the blood rush through his veins, and she felt her mouth open, unable to resist. But then he let her go and the feeling of pure lust vanished, snarling back into the depths of her being. “H... hello Kunod,” she stammered, trying to get herself under control.

“You’re ice cold, Roë. Come on, come sit by the fire, get warmed up.”

“I’m... I’m fine. Uh, Kunod, this is Serana. Serana, Kunod. Isran around?”

Kunod made a short bow toward Serana, who obliged, and said to Roë, “Yes, he’s pacing about somewhere. The... raid didn’t go as planned. Lost a few people. He’s been having trouble sleeping.”

Serana frowned at Roë curiously. “Raid?”

“I’ll explain later. Could you... go get Isran for us, Kunod? I think we’ll... go sit by the fire after all.” She had no intention of doing so, but Kunod would be more willing if he felt that his helpfulness was acknowledged.

Kunod nodded. “Of course. Go on, I’ll be right back.” He walked off in search of the Dawnguard’s leader, and Roë and Serana found themselves alone in the main hall.

“Nice touch on the sitting-by-the-fire thing,” Serana pointed out. She’d clearly picked up on Kunod’s feelings towards her. “Thought you were gonna gobble him up right there when he hugged you though.”

“It... was close. Why do I get these urges? I don’t want to hurt him. I shouldn’t want to hurt him. He’s my _friend_.”

Serana shook her head. “No friends, not anymore.”

“You’re... you’re my friend though, right?” Roë asked, dreading the answer more than she wanted to.

But Serana nodded and said, “Insofar as we can still make friends, yes.”

“Now, I should tell you about these people. Like I said, they study Vampires. But they think all Vampires are like those brutes you mentioned. If we can show them that you c... that we can be reasoned with, then maybe we can help find a peaceful way to resolve this conflict.”

“Oh ho ho,” she laughed. “You better keep that to yourself when we go see my father. He’s not a man of peaceful solutions.”

“Really?” Roë asked. “You’d think – ”

“Our new member returns,” Isran’s voice echoed through the main hall. He was walking toward them, his arms outstretched. “Good to see you’re safe. Really.” He held out both his hands and Roë awkwardly took them, feeling another urge rise up as she felt the warmth of his hands. Then he let go and it was gone again. “I’m anxious to hear your report, but tell me first, who is this lovely creature accompanying you?”

Roë let Serana introduce herself, then said, “Isran... can we talk? In private? And... freely?”

Isran’s eyes went to Serana, and then back to Roë. There was suspicion in them, clear and plain.

“Something wrong?” Roë asked.

Isran studied them for a moment longer, then smiled and said, “No, not at all. But uhm... you must be tired. Please, ladies, you should rest. Your report can wait until morning.”

“But I thought – ”

Isran’s smile widened. “Please, I insist. You’ve walked so far, it’s three in the morning. It’d be selfish to let you report now. You need to rest first. You know where your chamber is... Roë, was it?”

“Uh, yes, I’ve been there.”

“Good. Head on upstairs then, freshen yourself up and get a few hours of sleep. The room next to you is empty, so... Serana? Serana, yes. That room is at your disposal. Please, rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“But – ”

Isran put his hand on Roë’s shoulder. “I insist, Roë. I feel bad over asking for your report before letting you get some shut-eye. I’m just really tense, with the recent loss we had.” He remembered himself. “But I’ll tell you about that in the morning,” he added hastily. “Go on, off with you.”

Roë could do nothing but comply. This man clearly wasn’t going to let it go, and if they had to wait a few more hours before being able to talk, then so be it. Pushing it would be unwise. “Alright then. Try to get some sleep of your own, Isran?”

He chuckled. “There won’t be much sleep for me tonight. Trust me.”

Roë led Serana up the stairs and as she did so, Serana repeated, in a comically exaggerated voice, “’Roë, was it?’ They must consider you a valued member to their society.”

“Go ahead, laugh it up,” Roë smiled back. “I’m actually pretty new, and they sent me out on a mission right away. They thought it was a wild goose chase.”

“Heh. Were they ever wrong. Anyway, I suggest we try to ‘sleep’ until the evening. If anyone asks, we’ll simply say we were really tired.”

Roë nodded. “Good plan.”

This was her room. She’d only been in there for a few hours, resting a bit before heading out to, well, where she’d found Serana. And her own end. She threw down her backpack and showed Serana to her room – at least, what Roë thought was her room. Turned out almost all the rooms in her corridor were empty. Not too many women in the Dawnguard.

She told Serana to pick the room opposite hers and wished her goodnight. Heh, what a joke. Good night.

Sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, Roë felt the sadness creep over her again. These people wouldn’t be able to help her. They wouldn’t know a cure. Maybe they’d be able to give them insight on the Vampires and show them they could be reasoned with, but a cure, that was too much to hope for. It had been pointless coming here, at least for that. She’d be like this forever, until she was put down, or until she became a twisted, ravenous beast. She didn’t even bother trying to end her unlife again. It wouldn’t work, like Serana had said.

Three light raps on the door. “Roë!”

“Serana?”

“Open up, hurry!”

Roë did so. Serana stood in the hallway, looking skittishly up and down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Voices,” she said. “Below us. A lot.”

They were right above the main hall, so she figured it was normal to hear the occasional voice. Roë hadn’t heard anything, but given Serana’s age and power, it was possible she could hear things Roë couldn’t. “There’s people below us, it’s not – ”

“No, Roë. I know those kinds of voices. These aren’t people talking. Come on, get into my room. Hurry.”

Not understanding, Roë obliged. “Serana, what in Oblivion is going on?”

Serana set the door slightly ajar and peered out. “Those were the voices,” she whispered, “of people getting ready for combat.”

“Combat? Against whom?”

Serana’s impatient, you-must-be-very-thick look answered the question. “What? Come on, they know me, they won’t just – ”

“Shh. Listen.”

Roe shut up and cocked her head. Indeed, there was the sound of boots coming up the stone stairs. They were trying to keep quiet, but her senses were sharper since she’d died, and she could hear every tick of every sole on the stone, every clink of every armour link, every rustle of fabric.

“Come on,” Serana said. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Out of here?” Roë hissed. “How are we going to – ”

“Window.” Serana glided to the window and opened it up, sticking her head out. “We’re in luck, this window has a pulley just above it. If we can climb up there, we can get to the roof. Should be a way down from there.” In her posh and rather unwieldy noble outfit, Serana put one knee on the windowsill and climbed out, until only her boots were visible, and then those too disappeared upwards.

“Damn it they’re not here!”

“They knew! They _fucking_ knew!” It was Isran’s voice. “Search this floor! Don’t try to catch them alive, they’re too dangerous.”

“But what if – ” She knew that voice too, it was young and insecure.

“No!” Isran again. “The person you knew is _gone_. She’s one of them now, and we need to protect ourselves from us, and lead her to a peaceful rest. Now search the floor!”

The sound came from Roë’s room, across the hall. Damn, Serana had been right! Damn it to Oblivion, they had to _move_! She followed Serana, putting one knee on the windowsill and hoisting herself up until she stood upright, hanging outside as the wind buffeted her, looking for handholds on the wall, and then spotting the protruding beam of the pulley. She snatched for it, but her feet lost purchase and she slipped, grabbing hold of the top of the window for balance.

“They’re over here! They’re getting away!” The young man’s voice again. Roë briefly ducked her head under the windowsill, and saw the newest Dawnguard recruit, Agmaer, standing in the doorway, a crossbow at the ready.

“Cack!” Roë snarled, pushing herself off with her feet and throwing her arms around the pulley. Before she could pull her legs up, an explosion of pain blasted through her leg, just above the left knee. “OW _WWW_!” she shrieked, realizing she sounded more indignant and truly in pain, and then she pulled her legs up, boosting herself up and snatching Serana’s hand, which quickly pulled her up to the roof.

“He shot me in the leg, _damn it_ ,” Roë cursed, sitting on her ass and cupping the wound, the crossbow bolt still embedded in her leg. The roof was flat, with waist-high parapets set around it to provide cover to soldiers firing bows at the attackers below. The wind blew hard at this height, howling around them, pulling at their clothes and hair.

“They’ve gone to the roof! Go around! Stairwell!” Isran shouted below them.

“Stairwell, my ass,” Agmaer’s voice muttered, and Roë heard the scraping of a body against stone below her. He was going to climb onto the roof same way they had.

“Come on, we have to move,” Serana said curtly, then closed her fingers around the crossbow bolt and pulled it free before Roë even realized what was about to happen, causing another explosion of pain. Roë let out an angry “Aarh!”, but Serana merely said, “Come on. Bite the pain, you can use that leg perfectly fine,” and tossed the bolt away.

“Are you kidding me?” Roë asked. “It just got impaled by a crossbow bolt!”

“You’re not human anymore, Roë,” Serana shouted, standing over Roë, her hair flapping in the wind. “Injuries just hurt, they no longer paralyze your muscles or make them lose strength. Now come _on_.”

Roë got to her feet and realized that yes, indeed, there was only pain, but the muscles themselves still worked perfectly fine.

“Stop right there!” Agmaer stood behind them, still holding his crossbow. “Hands where I can see them!”

“Your crossbow’s not loaded, boy,” Serana said calmly. “Come on, Roë, before the others – ”

Roë did not believe what happened next. The boy threw down his crossbow and charged straight at them, body-slamming into Roë and bowling her over. They crashed to the ground, more pain blasting up from Roë’s injured leg, and then the weight was lifted off her, Serana throwing the boy off her like he was weightless.

“He’s stalling us,” Serana shouted, almost inaudible above the howling wind. The boy smacked to the stones of the flat roof and immediately sprung back to his feet, drawing his axe. He wasn’t giving up.

“I got this,” Roë said, and moving even faster than she realized, she gave Agmaer a powerful left-right punch combo to the face. The boy staggered back, and Roë let the strength of her dead body flow through her, and she leapt in the air, letting out a loud growl of “Rwah!”, and swinging her leg in a powerful, flying roundhouse kick that connected perfectly with the side of his face.

Agmaer staggered back, stumbling from the hard kick to his face, trying to keep from falling over. As he stumbled, his backside hit the crenels of the battlement, and he went over.

“No!” Roë shrieked, but it was too late. They heard a surprised cry, cut short by a hard smack. Oh no. She’d sent the boy falling to his death. Oh no, no, no.

“Come on, Roë! They’ll be here any second!” Serana took her by the sleeve and pulled her forward. They descended from the roof safely to the floor, four storeys below.

“I... I...”

“Too late! There’ll be a lot more dead people if we don’t go,” Serana shouted over the howling wind.

“I d... didn’t mean to... to hit him so hard...” Roë stammered, but Serana pulled her sleeve again and her feet got moving.

“Down here!” Serana pointed to a small turret nestled into the side of the keep. It was three metres below them. “You can make the jump, don’t worry.”

“No way, that’s way too – ”

There was a hard shove in her back and she was propelled over the battlement, yelping as she went down, flailing her arms and trying to stay upright. Her body hit the turret’s inclined roof with a hard smack, and it felt like her body was flattened. Then she slid down the shingles and fell again, but this time some instinctual ability made her body somersault and land perfectly on its feet. There was a blast of pain from her injured leg, but it absorbed the fall just fine. She rolled with the fall, making a single tumble and finding herself back in a kneeling position. Serana landed next to her, gracefully and effortlessly.

She laughed, looking up at the keep. “Wish I could see their faces when they realize they have to run all the way down again.”

“Oh, Y’ffre, look what I’ve done...” Roë heard herself whine as she saw the body.

Agmaer lay sprawled on the ground. There was no blood, apart from a narrow rivulet that had issued from his ear, and a red stain in his blonde hair, but he was dead, his eyes wide open, looking sightlessly at the cloudy night sky. His pa’s axe lay a few metres further.

“There! Fire! Shoot them!”

Roë felt Serana throw herself against her, and the crossbow bolts fired from the battlements missed their targets, clacking on the stones, cutting through the space Roë and Serana had occupied only moments ago. “Come on,” Serana said. “We have to run!”

Roë took one last look at Agmaer and ran along with Serana.


	21. Falnas: Dampened Spirits

**FALNAS**

**Dampened Spirits**

**City of Riften**

“Heard Goldenglow Estate got some free nightlights?” Brynjolf said as Falnas met him at the agreed-upon place, the garden in front of the jarl’s longhouse. It was a nice place, private in its publicity, and even now, in the cold morning air, there were enough people around to make sure they hid in plain sight. “And that poor Aringoth woke up with a hangover that was distinctly not mead-related?” he added with a grin.

Falnas made a flourishing bow. “Everything you’ve heard is true.”

Brynjolf clapped him on the shouder. “Good job, Falnas. Vex is going to be pissed, but she always is.”

“I noticed.”

“Come on, let’s give Mercer the news and make it official.”

“With pleasure. I don’t mind hoops, or jumping through them, but there had to be a carrot at the end.”

“Oh there will be,” Brynjolf said with a grin as he led him to the graveyard. “A golden one at that. And as long as you don’t double-cross us, it’ll keep getting bigger and bigger. We take care of our own.”

For all the vile stories his kin used to tell about those ‘stupid oafish Nords’, Falnas found himself liking the land and its people more than he’d expected. Their openness and frankness were a nice change from all the politicking and manoeuvring back in Morrowind. There, your least dangerous enemies were armed with swords, and your most dangerous ones with smiles.

“So what’s with the animosity between Vex and Delvin?”

Brynjolf laughed. “Oh, trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Saying that makes me want to know even more,” Falnas said, grinning broadly.

“I’ll bet. I’ll fill you in someday. Right now, we’ve got business with Mercer. Believe me, your official membership of the guild is more important that Vex’ and Delvin’s little drama.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. And I assume you’ve got a job lined up for me right after that?”

Brynjolf grinned again as he clicked the key into the lock of the mausoleum, after a furtive glance to see no one was looking. “You know us too well.”

“More Maven work?”

That wiped the grin off his face. “Sadly, yes. We’re close to being her private militia. But she pays like there was no tomorrow, so Mercer accepts her contracts without question. Guess it’s not his responsibility to make sure our contracts are from diverse sources. Or ours.”

That last addition couldn’t be more clear. “No, I suppose not. As long as the coin’s good.”

“You said it. Speaking of coin, yours is ready.”

They’d descended the ladder to the Cistern, and were back in the headquarters of the Thieves’ Guild, its flickering torches and pressing darkness a sharp contrast with the cold, misty morning air above.

“Mercer,” Brynjolf exclaimed in greeting. “Our newest has proven a fine choice. They’re probably still making water bucket chains at Goldenglow.”

The man behind the counter didn’t look pleased. In fact, his frown deepened. “He didn’t burn down the estate, did he?”

“Of course not,” Brynjolf quickly said with a chuckle. “Just a manner of speaking. Three hives, no more.”

“Hrm. And the bill of sale?”

Falnas produced the paper with a wide, winning grin.

“Not bad,” the Thieves’ Guild leader said, grudgingly though it looked. “You can be the one to tell Vex, Brynjolf.”

Falnas’ sponsor sighed. “I get all the fun stuff, don’t I?”

“It’s a leader’s job to delegate,” Mercer muttered, poring over the paper. “Well. This looks legit. Falnas, was it?”

Falnas nodded. He was pretty sure the man knew his name perfectly well.

“Welcome to the Thieves’ Guild. You’re officially a member now, so you’ve got free run of the place without Brynjolf having to baby-sit you. You report to me from here on out, and as long as you bring in the money, I bring in the jobs.”

Falnas nodded, overjoyed at the prospect of having to deal with this dour-face all the time.

“Got something lined up for you now. Maven wants to see you. She’ll tell you what needs to be done.”

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression I got orders from you, and not some outsider?” Falnas asked, realizing it was a stupid thing to say even as he said it. He saw Brynjolf wince from the corner of his eye.

Surprisingly, Mercer didn’t fly into a towering rage, kick him out of the Guild, or ram a knife in his throat. He merely said, “It’s easier this way. I don’t like this whole Maven-thing any more than you do, far less in fact, but for now, she pays and we do what she pays us for. I know a lot of you are concerned that her dealings will get us into trouble, but for now, trust in me when I say I’m keeping a very wary eye on her, and I won’t allow her to jeopardize this Guild.” As if he realized he was being too understanding for his doing, he added a hard and hostile, “Got it?”

Falnas knew it’d be unwise to press it. “Loud and clear.”

“Good. Go see Maven, she’s having breakfast at the Bee and Bard. Don’t keep her waiting.” With that, he returned to his ledger.

“Mercer?” Brynjolf asked, in a friendly, charming tone.

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Mercer only gave him an impatient glare.

“Falnas still needs to get paid for his job.”

Frey’s eyes lit up in badly-acted remembrance. “Oh! Of course. Here you go, new guy. Don’t spend it all in one place.” He scooped up a sack of septims from behind his counter and bonked it on the top.

“Much obliged,” Falnas said, thinking better of calling him out on his convenient memory lapse. He’d have to be on his toes, because these people probably reasoned that if you forgot to ask for your reward, it was your responsibility.

“Thanks Brynjolf,” he said as they walked back to the tavern section. “Barkeep?”

The man washing glasses didn’t respond, just kept looking into his sink.

“Vekel?” Brynjolf called out, a little louder this time. When the bartender did acknowledge the call, Brynjolf explained, “Vekel doesn’t like it if everyone just calls him barkeep.”

“Ah, right,” Falnas said. “Vekel, whatever Brynjolf has today, it’s on me.” He placed a handful of septims on the table. His way of thanking Brynjolf for ensuring he got paid.

“You got it,” the barkeep said, whisking the money off the table. “You can buy anyone drinks here, except Vex. Then you and I are going to have a problem.”

“I don’t like problems,” Falnas said back. He didn’t like tough guys either.

“Cheers, Falnas,” Brynjolf said. “Now go on, don’t keep Maven waiting.”

“You got it.”

He emerged from the mausoleum again. The woman sitting by one of the graves gave him a quick glance but paid him no heed. After all, he was just some guy returning from his prayer, right?

The morning mist was clearing up, making way to a cold, but pleasant winter sun, livening up the colours as he walked to the Bee and Barb. Keerava probably hadn’t recognized him when he’d... ‘settled the matter’ of her protection money, so there was a good chance he could walk right in.

Indeed, the Argonian’s face didn’t change when she saw Falnas walk in. He nodded a greeting at her, then looked around the mostly empty tavern to see Maven Black-briar sitting at, of course, the best table in the house, the one overlooking the canal – and not the seedier side, but the sunlit tourist trap, insofar as Riften had one.

Maven nodded at him and he took it as a cue to sit down opposite her. This was a bad move, and she immediately hissed at him, “How _dare_ you sit in the presence of your betters! Stand up!”

His betters? What did this narcissistic harpy presume? He felt like slapping the stuck-up bint across the face. Still, mustn’t upset the client, so he rose, clenching his teeth.

Visibly appeased, she shook the bread crumbs off a napkin and placed it back in her lap. “That’s better. Now then. I don’t wish to be seen with you longer than I have to, so here’s what you’ll be doing.”

Vivec’s tiny withered cock, this woman was so arrogant he had to restrain himself not to pick her up and throw her out the window right there. He remained silent, taking great effort to stay composed.

She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a kerchief. “There’s a new competitor in the mead business, Honningbrew Meadery. Seems to have sprung up overnight.”

Falnas just stood there and listened.

“There’ll be a tasting tomorrow, and I want you to shut them down by,” she chuckled, “poisoning the well.” My, weren’t we poetic. “And also, I want to know how its owner, a vile cretin by the name of Sabjorn, managed to fund the garbage dump so quickly. My associate, Mallus Macius, has the details. You can find him in Whiterun. Go there now.”

If she was hoping that he’d say, ‘Yes, Maven’, or any variation thereof, the nauseating hag was sorely mistaken. Falnas simply turned and left, entertaining unfulfilled fantasies of using her underwear drawer as a toilet.

It was evening when he reached Whiterun, and he still had to find Mallus Maccius. Whoever he was. Still, he took a moment to treat himself to a good meal in the Bannered Mare, putting his newly acquired purse of septims to good use. The glazed deer with mushrooms and juniper berries tasted divine, as did the Honningbrew reserve he’d bought to go with it. He wasn’t going to pay for a drop of Maven Bitch-briar’s swill. He found himself enjoying his childish, petty and useless silent act of rebellion.

There was a man at the counter, leaning on the top and talking conspiratorially to the elderly bartender, occasionally looking back at Falnas. He had shoulder-length long hair, a sunken, long face, and eyes set in dark rings. He looked Imperial, so it might have been his contact, but there were probably more than one Cyrodiilics in Whiterun. Still, his behaviour suggested more than a fleeting interest in Falnas. Either because he was the contact, or because he wanted to cut the purse of some newly-arrived, clueless berk who just ordered the most expensive meal the inn offered.

Falnas hoped for his sake that he was indeed the contact.

He’d know soon enough, he figured, as he left the appropriate amount of septims, plus a little extra for the good service and quality of his dinner, on the table. He wiped his mouth, though not like a prissy old cunt like Maven had done, and walked out, raising a hand in goodbye to the bartender.

He closed the door behind him, and before he’d taken a few steps, he heard it open again. Now he’d know if the sunken-eyed man was his contact or a cutpurse.

“Not a fan of Maven’s slop either, are you?”

Yeah, probably not a cutpurse then.

“Not a fan of anything associated with her,” Falnas said back, turning around. “Is your name Mallus?”

The man nodded. “Maven sent you, right? We need to talk. We sh – ”

He was interrupted by two people running down the road, as fast as they could, bearing torches in one hand and a weapon in the other. They skidded to a halt in front of Falnas and his contact.

“Hey, you!” the male panted, a Nord with shoulder-length gray hair, that made his young face look older than it was. “Have you seen anyone come running past here?”

“Apart from you? No,” Falnas replied. “Should we have?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” the other snapped, a woman with brown hair, cut at the same length as the man, and with blue war paint across her face. She wore leather armour was so revealing at the sides it made Falnas wonder as to its practical uses. She took a breath to calm herself, then asked, “You haven’t seen anything?”

“No, we haven’t,” Falnas’ contact repeated. “Maybe if you told us what we’re supposed to look for?”

“Just... someone! Anyone!” the man shouted. It was now that Falnas noticed he had blood on the chest of his leather breastplate. Wasn’t his business. “Or was it you, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing. He raised his axe.

“Was what me?” Falnas asked, making the stupidest face he could.

“It can’t be,” the woman said. “They’re not even out of breath.” She sighed and looked at the city gates, a few hundred metres further. “We’ve lost him, whoever it was.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we’ve got nothing to do with it. You can ask the innkeeper,” Falnas’ contact said. “We were in there all the time until now.”

The Nord glared at them for a moment, then lifted his torch and threw it to the ground as hard as he could, shouting, “Damn!” in pure frustration. Sparks flew from the torch as it hit the ground.

“Come on,” the woman said. “There have to be traces. We’ll find him.”

Without another word, they turned and went back the way they came from, leaving the torch lying in the middle of the road. The man’s back was slumped and the woman didn’t look too cheerful either.

Wasn’t his business.

“I... have no idea what that was about,” the Imperial said.

“Neither do I.” Falnas watched the two go, then said, “Nor do I care.”

“Let’s go back inside, public places are always the best if you want to discuss business.”

Yes, thank you for that helpful piece of advice that I didn’t know already. “Alright.”

They took their seats at the most secluded table possible and ordered drinks. The Imperial took a brandy and Falnas shelled out big septims for a sujamma. How stereotypical they both were.

“So,” Falnas said when the serving girl had left them. “Maven said you were the man with the plan?”

“The rough lines of it at least, yes,” the Imperial answered. “I assume you’re more than capable of breaking into the meadery, but I have a more elegant idea.”

“Elegant is good,” Falnas agreed.

“Sabjorn’s put out a ‘help wanted’-bill for an exterminator. He needs someone to poison the rat nest in his meadery.” He grinned conspiratorially. “You can already see where I’m going with this, can’t you?”

Falnas nodded. “You want me to reveal he’s got rats in his meadery?”

Mallus held up a finger. “Close, but no. Even better than that. The poison you’re supposed to dump into the rats’ nest? You do as you’re told, but if you save just a little for the meadery vat...”

“Hold on,” Falnas said. “Maven’s enlisted the Thieves’ Guild, not the Dark Brotherhood. I won’t be responsible for people dying of poisoned mead.”

Mallus laughed. “It won’t be ‘people’ drinking it, just one guy. And – ”

“One or a thousand, it doesn’t matter,” Falnas said adamantly. “ _No_ killing.”

Macius shook his head. “Let me finish. It’s rat poison. It’ll kill the crap out of the rats, but if you mix a small quantity in a large beer vat, it’ll simply make the drinker feel positively awful for a day or two, not to mention the foul taste it’ll give to the mead.”

Falnas shrugged. “Then if it’s just one guy, how will it ruin his business.”

The Imperial’s grin widened. “ _Because_ that one guy will be the local Legion Commander, Caius. He has to sample the mead and approve it for production.” He chuckled. “Let’s just say that is one sample he won’t approve of.”

“And the poison won’t kill him?”

“No. It’ll be so watered down it’ll just make him wish it did for a day or two.”

There was another snag in his plan. “And what about me? They’ll know I spiked the beer.”

“No they won’t. You were some guy hired to clear out the rats, and you did. And since you’ll leave no trace, nobody knows you were even outside the basement and anywhere near the vat. You honestly don’t think they’ll stop to think of the poison, do you?” He drank from his brandy. “Sabjorn will think it was a bad batch, and Caius will think Sabjorn can’t brew mead to save his life. No one will suspect foul play.”

Falnas thought for a moment. “Tenuous... but it might work.”

He shrugged. “Not tenuous. Nobody will suspect you.”

“Fine. If that’s the way _Maven_ wants it.”

“Hey, don’t blame me, I’m just the messenger. You’re not the only one who thinks Maven’s going too far.”

“Good to know.” He rose and slid his chair back under his table. “I don’t assume we’ll be seeing each other again?”

“We will,” Sabjorn said. “I wouldn’t miss the tasting for the world, and I have a feeling neither would you.”

Falnas had to admit he was right about that.

He took a room in the Bannered Mare and enjoyed a good night’s sleep, then made his way to the Honningbrew meadery. The ‘help wanted’ sign was still there. Good. He simply opened the door and walked in.

“Yes? Help you?” the man standing behind the counter was a bald Nord with a five o’clock shadow. His clothes were stained with yellow, giving Falnas a pretty good indication that this was the brewer.

Still, he asked, “Morning. Is Sabjorn in?”

“You’re talking to him, friend. What can I do for you?”

Falnas pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m here about the notice?”

“Which one,” the man asked, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, “the ‘help wanted’ or the ‘trespassers will be stabbed’?”

Falnas made a weary face. “Not the one about being stabbed.”

The Nord chuckled, probably thinking he was funny, and said, “Right. Glad someone responded. Only had one guy come in, some worthless ex-guard who claimed he used to be an adventurer until he took an arrow – ”

“ _Don’t_ say it.” Falnas recognized the punch line to the tired old bar joke before he heard it.

The Nord cleared his throat, embarrassed at the denial of his witticism, and said, “Yes, well. There’s a rat next in the basement under my meadery. Since I really don’t want them getting to my mead, I want them gone. All you have to do is take some rat poison down there and pour it into their nest. Should stop them from coming back. Permanently.”

“Sounds good,” Falnas said. “You’ve got the poison?”

With a nod, Sabjorn handed him a small vial of repulsive-looking green liquid. “Just pour this down the rathole.”

“That’s all there is to do?” Sounded like a simple job.

“Don’t underestimate those damn rats,” Sabjorn warned. “I tried doing it myself and the damn things damn near bit my fingers off. Carry diseases, too.”

Yeah, no need to mention that to Falnas. The cure disease-potion he’d bought back in Riften as a preventative measure after the skeever attack had set him back quite a few septims. “So what’s the pay?”

“Fifty septims.”

The pay didn’t really interest him, since he’d be paid far more for this job by other people, but he had to keep it convincing nonetheless. “Seventy-five and it’s done.”

Sabjorn’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment of consideration, he nodded and said, “Seventy-five. It’s highway robbery though. Ever considered a career in the Thieves’ Guild?”

Falnas could only laugh uncomfortably as he took the poison.

“You can access the basement through the hatch out back. Not through the brewery, you have to understand I can’t let anyone near the vats.”

“Of course,” Falnas said. As if this brewer would have a say in it. He took the key Sabjorn held out, and stuck the vial of poison in the shock-proof compartment in his jacket.

The hatch was indeed out back, overgrown with weeds and grasses, like the rest of the plot. Falnas turned the key in the lock, and after a few pulls, got the hatch open, tearing the roots of the weeds overgrowing it. He’d been smarter this time, and brought a pocket lantern to light his way.

He shone his lantern into the dark hole below and asked himself why the floor moved. He took a small dried branch and lit it with his lantern, then let it drop into the basement. The shrieks and peeps answered his question. The damn floor was crawling with rats. Good thing his father wasn’t here. He hated rats. Was scared to death of ‘em.

Falnas knew how to deal with this kind of infestation, however. Since the brewer hadn’t told him it was forbidden to damage anything, he’d take care of these pests right quick. He extinguished his pocket lantern and let the oil run out, into the hole and onto the waiting rats. He emptied his two reserve oil canisters the same way, taking a good long time to let the oil run out, so that the rats, in their confusion, would get the oil all over them and their little friends as they ran around amongst each other.

Then it was simply a matter of taking the wick out of his lantern, lighting it and letting it slowly float down the hole.

It took a while until the shrieks stopped, and the stink that came from the hatch was so strong it could knock a mammoth flat, but eventually, the fires and the noises died down. Carefully, Falnas lowered himself down the hatch, kicking the charred remains of rat out of the way with his boots. Sabjorn would have a fun cleaning job to look forward to. Still, the rats on the surface had been broiled, but that didn’t mean the nest was destroyed. There was bound to be a boatload of the little critters still underground. Well, that was what the poison was for. Feeling his way around until his eyes adapted to the low light, he tried to locate the mound where the rats had burrowed into the ground. Bones and charred meat crunched under his soles. Nothing brushed past his leg though, so all the rats on the surface were probably dead or spooked into the corners.

His foot bumped into a mound of earth, and even with the limited light he had, he saw that the earth was heaped up around a pipe that went down into the ground. That was the place. He poured the poison down the pipe, taking care to let it run over the entire mouth, and kept a quarter of the vial. A quarter of a vial to a vat, it should make for some highly unpleasant stomach aches but not much else.

Then, to poison the vat. Light came from under a wooden door, set atop two or three steps, and that would most likely be the meadery. Falnas sneaked up the steps and tried to peer through the keyhole, taking his lockpicking kit out of his pocket. Wouldn’t be easy in the dark, but he’d make do.

He looked through the keyhole and saw nothing. That meant that either Sabjorn had blocked the keyhole with something to stop people from peeking in (not likely), or that the lock still had the key in it from the other side. Great. No need for all his thieves’ picks then. All he needed was his pair of narrow pliers. He slid the pliers in, clamped their arms around the key, and turned until he heard a loud _clack_. He waited for a moment to see if anyone came to investigate, but there was no response. Gently, he pushed the door open, wincing at the creaking joints, and found himself in the dimly lit boilery, the vat in question right in front of him.

It would be worth sneaking all the way through. No alarms and this framing would be perfect.

A small step was still set against the vat, probably to check the temperature and density, and he gratefully obliged, standing on the step and pouring the poison in. The mead briefly showed a faint green swirl on its foamy surface, and then that too was gone. No trace.

Then it was simply a matter of getting out, closing the door behind him, and tugging the key back into place with his pliers. He was never even there. Then he hoisted himself up through the hatch and was back into the morning sun. Even with the weeds and roots, this was a much better place to be than down in that basement.

“It’s done,” he told Sabjorn as he came to claim his reward. “They’re all off to the great rat catcher in the sky.”

“Excellent,” Sabjorn said, grinning broadly and plopping a coin purse into Falnas’ hand. He sniffed and said, “Judging from the smell, I’d say you made rat roast.”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Well, as long as it’s done. Say, there’s an event later today. Our mead gets tasted by the Imperial Commander, Caius,” his chest swelled with pride, “to be approved for commerce. You’re cordially invited, there’s free mead for everyone.”

Well, who was he to reject such an invitation. “Oh, sure. I’ll be there.” And then some.

“It starts in a few hours, we’re set to go bottle the first batch of mead right now. We’ll only bottle a small batch so the rest can referment. Be on time or it’s all gone!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

After treating himself to a modest lunch in the Bannered Mare, Falnas went to not miss it. There was a sizeable crowd gathered already, and a small podium had been built. On it stood a table with several mead bottles, and Sabjorn himself, flanked by none other than Macius Mallus. A few steps away stood a man dressed in heavy, ceremonial Imperial armour. His head was adorned with laurels. That must be the famous Commander Caius. Falnas did not envy his soon-to-come stomach cramps.

Falnas took his place among the crowd.

“Friends, family mead enthusiasts,” Sabjorn addressed the modest crowd. “It is with great pride that I announce an entirely new experience in the mead world. Honningbrew mead is sweeter, stronger and more rounded in taste than any mead on the market now. And it is with great pleasure that I invite the esteemed Commander Caius to take the very first taste of our mead, brewed with love for the craft.”

Oh, he’d be tasting the love alright.

The Commander took the very first glass of mead and held it up in a silent toast to the crowd. Then he drank. Falnas could see Sabjorn’s heart sink the moment the corners of the Commander’s mouth went down.

“It’s... certainly got a curious taste,” the Commander said, still looking like he’d bitten a lemon.

“Ah, but the Commander is more an appreciator of fine wines,” Sabjorn said nervously, wringing his hands. “It takes time for the taste buds to become used to the more bitter taste of mead again.”

“Yes, yes,” Caius said. “True, true. Still...” he smacked his lips. “Something strange about it.” He stood there for a moment longer, then said, “But you’re right, I’m more a wine connoisseur, and entirely unused to drinking mead. Sabjorn, you have my leave to distribute your mead to the people, and I wish you fruitful business!”

Sabjorn’s relief was so great even Falnas could feel the heat waves coming off him. What by Mephala’s rancid vagina-cock was going on? Damn it this was going all wrong. He shot a glance at Mallus, who met it with confident eyes and a nod. He still believed in it.

“Come friends,” Sabjorn announced, “mead for everyone. And tell everyone you were here on this day, when the first Honningbrew saw the light of day. It will be a day long remembered.”

The crowd began to queue up to taste the mead, but before they could, Commander Caius hunched over, his hand on his belly. Yep, there it went.

“C... Commander?” Sabjorn asked. “Is everything – ”

“Arrrh,” Caius growled, leaning on the table for support. “What in Oblivion is this? What have you given me, you poisoner?!”

Sabjorn’s face became red with panic. “I... I didn’t... I don’t know what...”

Caius growled in pain again while Mallus feigned consternation. “Cramps...” Caius muttered. “That mead... you traitorous dog!”

“Commander I don’t understand what’s going on here! It can’t have been the mead!”

“It must have been,” Caius snarled, still bent over. “What kind of brewer are you?”

“My Lord Caius,” Sabjorn kept stammering, “it... it can’t have been the m-mead. Even if... if it was badly brewed, it could never have –”

The Commander abruptly spewed a cone of yellow vomit from his mouth and went to one knee. Falnas exchanged a glance with Mallus, and saw the same in his eyes: maybe they’d gone a bit too far on this one. This was a bit more dramatic than they’d hoped. Caius’ guards moved to steady him, but he swatted them away. “You damn shit excuse for a brewer!” Caius shouted, vomit dribbling off his chin. The crowd, meanwhile, stood watching with mouths and eyes wide open.

“M-my Lord Commander... the mead... it couldn’t have – ”

“Quiet!” Caius roared. “Guards! Grab this poisoner and haul him to Dragonsreach dungeon! A few months in there will make him reconsider if maybe it wasn’t the damn mead after all!”

“But... but my Lord!” Sabjorn protested as the guards grabbed him. “I don’t understand! I – ”

“Silence! Take him away! You!” he pointed at Mallus. “Accountant! You’re in charge for now.” Then, back to his guards, “And get me a damn physician!”

With that, Sabjorn was hauled away by two burly guards while a third ran for a doctor for the ailing Caius, who staggered (on his own two feet, which was quite the achievement) back to his barracks, hunched over and swaying from side to side.

The crowd slowly dispersed, every one of them overcoming their amazement at a different moment. None tried the mead.

“Inside,” Mallus told him, nudging his head at the door.

He closed the door behind them and said, “Well, that was a bit over the top.”

“Quite,” Falnas said. “But it did the job.”

“Much to Sabjorn’s dismay. Anyway, Maven wanted you to find the source of his income too, I don’t know if she told you?”

“She did.”

“Well, when I did the books,” Mallus explained, “there were a lot of things that didn’t add up, especially in terms of incoming capital. So I did some snooping around. Found a bedpan under his bed with a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve in it,” he chuckled, Falnas grinning along with him, “and also found this.” He fished a note from his pocket, held it up between two fingers, and gave it to Falnas. “I don’t know what the symbol means, but maybe the Guild does. Maven will want to see it, but she won’t know what it is either, I reckon.”

Falnas nodded. “I’ll run it by her and then see what the Guild has to say.”

He opened the note and read it. There was a symbol at the top of the paper, a sort of twisted, stylized dagger in a black circle. He had no idea what it was either. The note itself was a promissory note accompanying, as it said, a large sum of money to get the Honningbrew brewery off the ground. The author also promised to keep Maven at bay, promising Sabjorn to do ‘everything in his power to keep Maven’s assets and allies off his back’. Strange. Another enemy Maven had apparently made over the years. Damn woman.

“Seems Sabjorn had a silent partner,” Mallus remarked.

“Indeed. I need to bring this to the Guild. Thanks for the help Mallus, see you around.”

“Sure thing.”

“And enjoy your new brewery.”

Falnas wasted no time getting to Riften, and when he came through the gates, he saw into Maven’s right-hand man, the Nord with the massive warhammer he’d seen the first time he’d been taken to the Ragged Flagon, guarding a house. “Hey,” Falnas greeted. “I need to see Maven, can I see her?”

“Guild business, huh?” the Nord grunted. “Head on in.”

“Thanks.”

He waited in the antechamber for a moment, as asked by a serving girl, and was then allowed an audience with her royal highness. The house she lived in wasn’t really a house, more like a villa, with stained glass windows, polished wooden furniture, expensive-looking paintings on the walls, and heavy velvet drapes. Maven’s body-guard came in with him.

“You’ve presented yourself to me,” Maven said, waiting for him in her leather sofa. “Since you’re not stupid, that means you’ve come to report success?”

Falnas nodded. “Indeed. Sabjorn’s finished, and Mallus has taken over.” Bitch.

“Good. Good,” Maven merely said. My servant will reward you accordingly, as will the Guild, no doubt. And the other thing I requested?”

“Sabjorn had a silent partner,” Falnas reported. “We found a note promising to keep you off his back, and offering a rather massive sum of starting capital.” He handed her the note and she read it with an imperious face.

“Hm,” she said. “It would seem someone deliberately set this Honningbrew business up to thwart me.”

Not at all narcissistic of you, you wrinkly prune.

“This symbol,” she said. “Familiar to you, in any way?”

“No, but maybe my superiors at the Guild – ”

“Where is she?” a familiar voice resounded off the walls as the door banged behind Falnas, and in stormed the blonde vigilante, her boots banging on the hardwood floor. The man with the hammer looked at Maven, who made a hand gesture telling him not to intervene for now. Behind her followed the serving girl, staggering and holding her head. “I’m sorry Lady Maven, she wouldn’t – ”

“Maven!” the blonde threatened. “Another Amberblossom employee dead. Mysteriously kicked in the head by a horse.”

“Are you here to collect charity for his family?” Maven asked, still lying on the sofa, her nose in the air.

“I know it was you, Maven,” the woman growled, jabbing a finger at her. “You’ll hang for this!”

“My dear, I have no idea what you’re raving about,” Maven simply said back, “but I’d watch your threats in my house. Your Dragonborn friend is gone again, to run after dragons I assume, and it is most unwise to threaten someone of my influence in her own house.”

“It’s not a threat,” Mjoll the Lioness snarled. “It’s a promise.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Maven said, shooing her away. “You may leave now.”

“I’m not done,” the other woman refused to move. “I want this to stop before more people get hurt!”

“Maul, if you please?” Maven said dismissively to her bodyguard, “Teach this man-bitch some manners.”

“Yes, lady Maven.” The hulking Nord took the two-handed hammer off his back and came to stand in front of Mjoll. She wasn’t an unimpressive woman, but this man dwarfed her easily. “You heard the lady, Mjoll. You can moo on out of here, unless you need a hand.”

Mjoll looked past him at Maven, panting in anger, then said. “The people are fed up with you thinking you’re above the law, and all they need is a few more nudges until they string you up in the street.”

Maven shooed again. “Out.”

Her bodyguard raised his massive arm and pointed at the door, and this time Mjoll did stand down. “Very well. I’m leaving. But this isn’t over, Maven.”

“Oh no, it isn’t,” Maven said, flashing a poisonous smile, “but it soon will be.”

Mjoll gave her a last hateful glare, then stomped out.

“This one wasn’t even mine,” Maven said to no one in particular. “I hate it when I get accused of things I haven’t done.”

“Forgive me, Lady Maven,” the serving girl peeped. “I couldn’t stop her, she – ”

Maven said nothing, but took an apple from the silver bowl on the table before her, and threw it at the girl, the fruit hitting her in the head. “Oww!”

“Stop your bleating and get back to work.”

“Y-yes Lady M-Maven.”

She pointed at the fallen apple. “And pick that up.” Then she addressed Falnas again. “As for you, show this document to the Guild. Mercer will know the symbol, and if he doesn’t, then definitely Delvin. He knows everything about symbols.”

“Understood.”

She nodded. “You may go now.”

He turned, glad to be out of this woman’s neighbourhood, but before he could leave, she asked him, “Oh, there is one more thing, if you’re interested? Entirely optional.”

“I’m listening?”

“Mjoll is becoming more than a nuisance. I need someone to deal with her in a way that can’t be traced back to me.” Her eyes hardened. “Permanently.”

Oh no, no way. He wasn’t a hired killer. “Not interested. Just because I steal from people doesn’t mean I’m fine with becoming a murderer.”

“Oh, but who said anything about murdering?” Maven asked, playing innocent. “I just meant, have a good chat with her and convince her to leave me alone. But very well, if you’re not interested, like I said, entirely optional.”

“No. I’m not interested.”

“No hard feelings. Off with you then.” She at least didn’t shoo him away like he’d done Mjoll, He might have put her through the window there and then if she had.

Falnas left the Black-Briar estate, knowing full well that if things kept going like this, they would be going out of control.

 


	22. Keljarn: Bloody Mist

**Keljarn**

**Bloody Mist**

**City of Whiterun**

 

The walk back had been mostly silent. Aela had simply said she wanted to be left alone, to deal with what had happened, and asked not to take it personally. Keljarn hadn’t.

They’d left Skjor there, on that hill, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies. They’d built a pyre and his remains had been burned with full honours. Those of his enemies had been left to rot. Krev the Skinner hadn’t been among them, Aela said she was sure of it. That meant the Silver Hand was not necessarily exterminated. And they might try to kill more of the Companions.

Unless the Companions killed them first.

They’d gone through the city gates of Whiterun. It was evening, and the townspeople were all inside, eating warm meals or sitting by the fire on this cold day. They ascended the stairs to Jorrvaskr, the Gildergreen lit by lanterns above them. Before they went in, they heard the voices of Farkas and Vilkas above them, coming from the Skyforge. They had no idea what had happened.

“Let’s... tell them later,” Aela said, looking up at the Skyforge with misty eyes.

“Sure. Let them be for now.” They both knew they didn’t delay the telling for the brothers’ sakes.

The mead hall looked different even though it wasn’t. Keljarn didn’t know how many Companions had fallen in the last years, but he didn’t think it was that many.

“Stop... stop right there!”

Aela and Keljarn exchanged an alarmed look. It was a woman’s voice, coming from the basement level.

“Ah... ah... _assassin_!” And right after the cry of alarm came a surprised and pained “AH!”.

They both bolted for the stairs, rushing down as fast as they could, before throwing their weight against the door. But instead of flying open, the door stayed closed, not budging.

“What th...” Keljarn breathed, rubbing his aching shoulder.

From behind the door they heard a loud, gurgling, “AORGH!”

“It’s barred from the other side!” Aela snarled, slamming her fist against the door in frustration. “Go around!”

They rushed back up the stairs, then crossed the mead hall, taking the stairs down on the other side, their boots thudding on the wood. Nine dammit what was going on?!

This time the door did fly open, and the first thing they saw in the hallway was a female body, dressed in a light tunic and trousers, prone, with its arms and legs sprawled, a large blood stain spreading underneath it. They rushed forward and fell to their knees beside the fallen Companion.

“Ria!” Aela shouted, “ _Ria_!”

The girl lay on her back, with a dagger hilt protruding from between her small breasts, blood turning the light green of her tunic black. The dagger was stuck all the way to the hilt, her chest looking somehow flattened. Whoever had done this must have had superhuman strength.

“Ria!” Keljarn echoed his friend. “Ria, what happened?”

The girl’s eyes rolled in their sockets and settled on Keljarn. “S... suh... sorry, I... couldn’t...”

“Try not to talk,” Aela rapped. “Keljarn, _do_ something.”

He couldn’t pull the knife out, and as long as it was there, healing spells had no use, nevermind the fact that he would never be able to heal a massive wound like this one. “Aela, I can’t... I can’t heal this,” he breathed, hearing the panic in his own voice. Ria was going to die and there was nothing they could do.

“Ria, who did this to you?” Aela asked.

“I was... g... going to do... great things,” Ria said, blood coming up with every word, running down the side of her mouth as he lungs filled up. “It’s n... not fair...” With the last of her strength, Ria brought up her arm, her fingers almost touching Keljarn’s face before the arm fell away again. “I was... even... st... stupid e... enough to th... think you m... might...”

She didn’t finish what she wanted to say, leaving it forever unsaid.

“Ria?” Aela asked quietly, sounding surprisingly calm. Keljarn, meanwhile, felt like all of this wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t really happening.

Resigning to the truth, Aela simply closed her eyes. “We... we should search the place. See if there’s anything that can tell us who did this.”

“We must have just missed him. If we hadn’t run for that door, then...”

“We can still catch him,” Aela shouted. “Come on!”

They left Ria behind and ran, back up the stairs and out the door on the other side they’d come in from, snatching a torch each from the wall. Keljarn paused to look around while Aela sprinted straight down into the town. Seeing nothing, Keljarn followed her. They ran down the stairs, past Heismkr’s usual preaching place and into main street, where two men stood talking in front of the inn, one Imperial and one Dunmer.

Aela skidded to a halt and Keljarn stopped beside her. “Hey, you!” he shouted at the men, panting from the run. “Have you seen anyone come running past here?” They had better!

“Apart from you? No,” the Dunmer replied, stupidly adding, “Should we have?”

“Obviously,” Aela snapped at him, close to exploding with anger, grief and frustration. She apparently realized it herself and took a breath, closing her eyes, then asked, “You haven’t seen anything?”

The Imperial said back, “No, we haven’t. Maybe if you told us what we’re supposed to look for?”

“Just... someone! Anyone!” Keljarn shouted. Were these guys being deliberately obstinate? Maybe lying? “Or was it you, maybe?” he asked, glaring at them and raising his axe. Maybe it was. Maybe these two were the killers and they were playing dumb.

“Was what me?” the Dunmer asked, still looking completely clueless. Damn this sabotaging liar!

“It can’t be,” Aela said. “They’re not even out of breath.” Despite his anger, Keljarn had to admit she was right. Aela sighed and looked at the city gates, a few hundred metres further. “We’ve lost him, whoever it was.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we’ve got nothing to do with it. You can ask the innkeeper,” the Imperial said. “We were in there all the time until now.”

Keljarn stood glaring at them for a moment longer, somehow trying to bend his theory to conform to the facts, _wanting_ these two to be the culprits, but it was no use. Feeling the frustration overtake him, he shouted, “Damn!” and threw his torch to the ground, just to let the anger out, the torch shooting sparks as it smacked into the dirt.

“Come on,” Aela said, putting a hand on his arm, the feeling of another human being bringing him some measure of calm. “There have to be traces. We’ll find him.”

Keljarn didn’t even bother to pick up the torch and they trudged back to Jorrvaskr, hoping against hope to find traces of the murderer.

“The door was ajar,” Keljarn said hoarsely when they came back in. “This one. Killer went up these stairs just when we realized the door on the other side was barred. Got out before we got a glimpse of him. If we’d reacted sooner...”

“No,” Aela said. “Don’t. We can’t beat ourselves up over this. We owe it to Ria to find who did this.”

She was right. “Yeah, that’s true. Look, partial boot print.” The print was very partial indeed, just the bloody edge of a sole, and worthless except to determine where the killer had left Jorrvaskr. They wouldn’t be able to follow the traces since it was all dirt just outside the mead hall, and then stone. One would erase the blood, the other would hide the footprints.

“Let’s search the basement,” Aela said. “Then find the others.”

They were back in the hallway under the mead hall, Ria’s body still lying there, as if to remind Keljarn that this had really ha              ppened. “Murder weapon might have some clues.” They kneeled by her body, inspecting the hilt of the dagger.

Aela shook her head. “Not an Avenicci, and not one of Eorlund’s. Killer wasn’t local, or at least the knife wasn’t, but that’s all it tells us.” She was right. It was a generic, unadorned hilt, like you’d find at any amateur blacksmith’s shop.

Without a word, Aela took the hilt and pulled. “Hold her down,” she grunted, Keljarn obeying like a mindless atronach. Aela had to wrench the knife a few times, with such force had it been embedded into Ria’s chest. With a series of wet cracks, the blade came free. It told them nothing, but at least the thing that had murdered poor Ria was out of her chest.

It was then that Keljarn saw the blood coming from under the door next to them, a dark red rivulet running into the veins of the wooden boards. “Aela.”

Aela followed his gaze, promptly went to her feet, and pulled the door open. “Ah, Nine, _no_!”

Talos, not another one!

Standing next to Aela, Keljarn saw Njada lying on her bed, already in her sleeping clothes, her throat torn open, the white of the bed sheets, her loincloth and her top red with blood. A red pool stood in the dimple of her navel.

“She’s gone,” Aela said hoarsely. “Has been for a while. Oh, Njada.”

“Whoever did this,” Keljarn heard himself croak, “it wasn’t an amateur.”

“But why kill two apprentices? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe the killer thought he’d find us all here.”

“No,” Aela said, sounding positive. “He must have known Farkas and Vilkas were up there. And killing Ria definitely looked like it wasn’t planned.”

“Because Ria walked in on him when he tried to get out?”

“Maybe. Could have been a personal grudge against Njada,” Aela said, her face ashen gray, “but doesn’t sound likely. She must have been... in the way.” She sighed. “Poor girls.”

“In the way of what?” Keljarn said, but as he said it, he knew what the answer to his question was, and from the looks of her, so did Aela.

“Kodlak,” she breathed, storming off to the Harbinger’s room and throwing the door open. As Keljarn ran after her, he heard her scream a heart-rending “No!”

The Harbinger, too, had met his end by the killer’s hands, although from the state his quarters were in, they could tell he had put up a serious fight. It looked like a whirlwind had swept across his room, plates were broken, candlesticks knocked over. Chairs were overturned and a cupboard had its door smashed in. Kodlak Whitemane lay face-down, his mace on the ground a ways further. He had been stabbed repeatedly in the back, neck, and back of the head.

Aela fell on her knees next to him. “This... this can’t be true. Without Kodlak, the Companions...”

Keljarn hadn’t known the man all that well, so at least in the face of this murder, he was able to stay somewhat rational. “We’re still here, Aela. So are Farkas and Vilkas. Athis too, when he recovers.” At least the wounded elf had been convalescing in the house of his friend, a hunter and bowyer.

“You’re... you’re right,” Aela said, sniffing but not letting a single tear fall. “We have to find out who did this. Though I have a suspicion already.”

“It can’t have been...?”

“Who else? They were clearly after Kodlak. Ria and Njada, they were just... in the way. It’s the Silver Hand alright.”

“Something doesn’t make sense,” Keljarn said, surveying the scene. The fight had clearly gone on for a while, and Kodlak had lost it. But surely, there was something he could have done? “Kodlak was part of the Circle, right?”

“Yes,” Aela said, standing up without taking her eyes off their Harbinger. “I’m wondering the same thing you are. Why didn’t he turn into a werewolf? He considered our gift a curse, but he would have used it if it had saved him.”

“Maybe he was surprised?”

“By over twenty stab wounds?” Aela asked. “No. But wait... let me see that murder weapon again.”

She stomped back out and came in holding the knife. “Thought so. I missed it the first time, but look at that blade.”

“It’s... very shiny?” Keljarn said. Then it dawned on him. “Silver?”

Aela nodded. “Silver is anathema to us. Poisons us and makes us unable to shapeshift.” She looked down at the murdered Harbinger again. “All the killer needed was one stab. Kodlak would have been able to fight back for a while, but the silver would have killed him regardless.” She looked small, standing there and dropping the dagger to the floor. “Killer must have stabbed him over and over again to speed up the process, but that’s why he couldn’t shapeshift.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Three members dead. I don’t know if the Companions will recover.”

Carefully, Keljarn put his arm over her shoulder. She didn’t resist. “We will. Just have to find some new people.”

“It’s all moot until we deal with these murderers anyway.”

“Let’s get Farkas and Vilkas. Tell them the news. They have a right to know.”

As they left the room, they saw a paper on the floorboards, punctured by a narrow, sharp object. Aela picked it up and held it out to Keljarn. On the paper was a silver, stylized hand.


	23. Siari: Left Hand Black

**SIARI**

**Left Hand Black**

**Sanctuary**

“Siari Siari Siari!” Babette chirped, running into the common room. “You should see this!”

Siari raised an eyebrow, her spoon of porridge suspended in mid-air.

“Come on, seriously, you gotta see this.”

Plopping her spoon back into the rapidly cooling porridge, Siari grinned and rolled her eyes. Fine. It was probably something completely stupid, but fine, she’d indulge the little tyke who claimed to be much older than she actually was. She rose and chewed the last of her porridge, swaying her head as she always did when she ate. It was the only way to move food around in your mouth when you didn’t have a tongue.

She came into the atrium, Babette stupidly grinning at her. “Get a load of this guy,” she whispered. “Says he’s got the Night Mother with him.”

 _The_ Night Mother? The ancient, terrible spirit who spoke to the Brotherhood the words of Sithis himself? Or herself, Siari figured. Surely this guy had to be a fraud. She looked down and saw the cart there, a big pink-purplish sarcophagus (or at least, that’s how it looked in the red light of the atrium) on top of it. The thing looked damn creepy, decorated with ridges on the front, and set with an ugly headpiece shaped like an evil face with a crest on its head. If this really was the Night Mother, she didn’t exactly choose the most comfortable dwelling.

“The sarcophagus isn’t the craziest part,” Babette whispered, sounding clearly amused. “Wait until you see the guy who drove the cart.”

They heard voices coming from Astrid’s office. One was the calm, compelling voice of the leader of their family, and the other, a man’s voice, sounded nasal and musical, in the way a goat giving labour could be considered musical.

“Here they come here they come.”

“But lady Astrid, poor Cicero has travelled so far, pulled the resting place of our beautiful mother across Skyrim so she may rest her head in your Sanctuary!”

They walked into view, and Siari was unable to keep her face from pulling into an incredulous open-mouthed mug. The man conversing with Astrid was the most ridiculous individual she’d ever seen. She’d never seen a real court jester – because she’d obviously never been at a real court – but she’d seen depictions of them, and this man looked just like one. He was small, hunched and had an ugly, sharp face. He’d apparently applied make-up, his skin more pale than was natural, with red blush highlighting his cheeks and a bright red lip stick turning his mouth into a thin, pointed sneer. A cap with bells made the image complete. And _this_ guy was taking care of the Night Mother? Tch, pull the other one.

“Yes, yes,” Astrid said, her tone telling that she shared Siari’s sentiment. “You’ve told me that ten times already. But you have to understand we can’t just blindly believe every harlequin who trundles a coffin in here.”

“Ohhh, but Cicero does not lie,” the jester whined. “You wound Cicero, lady Astrid. The Night Mother seeks a new Listener. Will you turn her away?”

“I’d never turn away the Night Mother. But I need to know this is really her and not some casket looted from a tomb and hauled in here by a madcap off the streets.”

“A madcap Cicero may be,” the jester whined in his nasal voice, “but Cicero did not ‘loot a casket’ from a tomb. As her Keeper, Cicero takes care of our glorious Mother.”

Arnbjorn had followed the two, and it was clear he was ready (and probably eager) to tear the harlequin in half if he got an excuse to.

“Festus,” Astrid called out. “Festus!” When there was no answer, she looked up at Babette and Siari and said, “You two, instead of eavesdropping, go fetch Festus.”

Siari nodded and went off with Babette, who said, “He’s probably in the pantry again, stealing food.”

And indeed, the old firebug sat in the kitchen, enjoying his latest prize of cinnamon pie stolen from the larder.

“Festus,” Babette said, “Astrid needs you in the Atrium.”

“Mmph,” Festus nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed, and then, through a half-mouth full of pie, mumbled, “Be right there.”

“I think she meant _now_ ,” Babette insisted.

“Fine fine,” Festus complied, powdered sugar puffing from his mouth. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll ignore the cream on your shirt,” Astrid said, “and pretend I don’t know you’ve been at the cinnamon pie again.”

Festus gave a sheepish grin.

“I need you to scry this sarcophagus. Check for strong magic.” Her eyes went to the coffin, then back to Festus. With a slightly unsure face, she said, “Do not be _too_ invasive.” Hm, looked like Astrid wanted to play it safe, just in case. Siari supposed she didn’t become the head of the family by taking irresponsible risks. And in this case, the risk of offending the Night Mother was irresponsible indeed.

Festus nodded. “I shall slyly, spryly scry by thy crypt.”

He closed his eyes and frowned. Then frowned deeper. He stood like that for a few moments, before he was knocked back by an invisible force, staggering backwards with a loud “Oof!

In alarm, Siari took his shoulder to steady him, and Astrid did the same on the other side.

“Don’t get a heart attack just yet, you old coot,” Babette sneered.

“You’re one... to talk... old fossil,” Festus grunted back. “Some powerful... magic emanating from this sarcophagus indeed,” he breathed at Astrid. “No, not powerful... _ancient_. Just what did you make me scry?”

Astrid went pale and stammered, “This... this uh...”

“Cicero believes you used the word ‘madcap off the streets’,” the small jester gloated. By Mephala, this wretch had been for real? Siari felt her mouth go dry.

“He... claims to have brought the Night Mother here.”

Festus’ eyes went wide. “You made me scry the _Night Mother_? Astrid, have you lost your _mind_?”

“I... didn’t think – ”

“Glorious and beautiful dark mother,” Festus supplicated, his hands together, “Forgive your humble servant for his transgression, wrought from loyalty for you and your chosen. I knew not what I – ”

“Yes, alright,” Astrid cut him off.

Even Babette seemed awed, the usually snooty and temerarious brat looking at the sarcophagus in unconcealed reverence. Just to be sure, Siari mustered up an apology in her brain and hoped it would reach the entity in the sarcophagus.

“Our undying loyalty to you, our Mother,” Festus went on, his head bowed. “Forgive me for my misguided – ”

Astrid’s eyes flashed. “That’s enough. I told you to scry the sarcophagus, this is my responsibility. I’ll answer to the Night Mother, you answer to me.”

The jester’s gave Astrid a hateful look, his eyes filled with venom, but she didn’t notice.

“Forgive us, Mother, we only acted to serve,” she said curtly. “Get Nazir and Gabrielle, then provide our glorious Mother with a suitable place in the Sanctuary. Babette, see that Cicero’s needs are provided for. As our Mother’s Keeper, he should want for nothing.”

“Yes, Astrid,” Babette said meekly. “If you would follow me, Keeper?” Siari had never seen her so polite and formal. It didn’t suit a child her age. And with Festus constantly calling her an old fossil, Siari began to wonder if there wasn’t really more to this child than met the eye.

“Not you,” Astrid said to Siari when she made to leave with Festus. “With all this commotion,” she said with a weary smile, “one would almost forget we have work to do. I’ve got a job for you. It’s a bit different from what we’re used to. Come on, I’ll fill you in.”

Siari couldn’t deny that she was glad to be sent on a job, because there would be tensions here soon, with the Night Mother arriving, and tensions were never good for keeping a family together. And she needed this family.

 

* * *

 

Two men, she detected, a distance above her. Talking to a third man. She was sitting quietly in a juniper bush, listening and gathering information about the place she’d be infiltrating. The three had been talking for a while, and that made her suspect they’d be talking for a while still.

It was evening, she’d made sure to wait until then, and she’d seen very little activity. It seemed the place was running on a skeleton crew at the moment. So much the better. She’s only seen one person leave the building, a sour-faced female emptying the dish tub. The mark was inside though, had to be. If her information was correct, and Astrid had assured her it was.

Astrid had also assured her that it was extremely important to leave the paper and make sure the blame for what she was about to do was put firmly at the doorstep of the contractor – at that contractor’s explicit request – and not the middle-man that was the Brotherhood. She’d hinted that there might be some... ‘blowback’... from what she was about to do, and the Brotherhood had to stay out of it. Siari agreed. Blowback was bad.

The three men were still talking on the plateau above her. Now was the time. Siari stalked to the building, clearing the distance between the juniper bush and the doors without a sound. Carefully, she pushed the door open, just a little bit.

“It’s alright, go to bed.”

“Can’t. They’ve got me scrubbing the – ”

“I’ll take care of it. Go on, sleep, you can barely stand.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re waiting for me to say thank you for your magnanimousness now?”

“Hey, listen. I’m not trying to be patronizing or condescending, alright? I can simply see you’re dead tired and I’m offering to help out. That’s all.”

Silence. “Then um... thanks, I guess.”

“I should thank you, you’ve been working without a break for the entire day.”

“That’s what you get when you’re the only one.”

“I know. You won’t have to wait long anymore either, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. Sure. Night.”

“Good night.”

Good. One of them was going to bed, the other was staying up scrubbing something Siari didn’t give two shits about. She heard footsteps go down to the lower level, then a door open, and the footsteps were gone. Her target would be in the lower level too. She might have to get rid of that one as well. Might be safer.

She stuck her head inside and saw a female wearing a green tunic standing with her back to her, scrubbing the wooden tables. These people sure made an awful mess for being so few in number. She pulled her mask over her mouth and nose and crept past behind the scrubbing woman and tiptoed down the stairs, her enchanted armour muffling all noise. It would be the first room she saw, directly opposite the stairs. She barred the door behind her so no one could follow her and knelt before the door, taking out her lockpicks. She wasn’t as good as someone from the Guild, but she could open a lock or two, and these things were ridiculously easy.

“Someone out there?”

Damnit, that voice came from the other room, it had been the other woman she’d heard talking before. This one was going to interfere. So much the worse for her.

Siari shifted position and went to stand next to the door. It’d be best if she could quietly eliminate this one and stash the body somewhere, give her more time to do what she’d come for.

The minute the woman stuck her head out the door, Siari used the grapple Nazir had taught her and hooked her arm around the woman’s neck, turning her around so she stood behind her, then dragged her back inside before she realized what happened.

When she was a few steps inside, the woman overcame her surprise and began struggling. Siari had her in a good grip, but her victim was surprisingly strong. When she inhaled to scream, Siari stuck her knife in the side of her throat, feeling the muscles and tendons rip and snap as the blade went in, and then she pulled forward, tearing the knife through her larynx, severing her jugular and carotid, and making it impossible for her to scream.

In her night clothes, the woman gurgled, kicked and thrashed, blood spurting from her throat, but Siari held on, and she could feel her victim’s strength waning as she bled out, soaking her top and loincloth with red. Siari felt the woman die, felt the body shake in her grip, all the hopes and dreams this person still had bleeding out of her, her young life spurting from her opened throat. Siari closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of absolute power that came with taking everything away from another person, feeling the warm body against hers, shaking and convulsing in its death throes. She’d taken everything this woman had, and everything she was ever going to have. This woman had trained, had prepared, had hoped, had dreamed, all of it, to some end only known to her, and now Siari had taken it all away. She’d ended a life, not that of a captive with no hope as she had in the hut with Astrid, not that of an old beggar who merely existed instead of lived, like she’d done on her first job, not that of a worthless bandit thug who had been moments away from being knifed in the back by his associates, but that of a young, alive and healthy person, with things to look forward to, things to prepare for, things to aspire to, and now it was all gone, and Siari revelled in the power.

The woman stopped flailing and clawing, the arms going limp, though her bare feet still feebly kicked, and the rush was over. Siari dumped the dying body on the bed. Its open mouth made a few gasps without drawing air, like a fish out of the water, and one foot moved a few more times, then it lay still, eyes staring at the ceiling. Its smooth, slightly tanned skin was slick with red blood that pooled into the depressions between her well-defined muscles. Muscles all trained and developed for a purpose Siari had now taken from her.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This one had almost made her entire contract go sour. And for it, she’d ended up dying half-naked and covered in her own blood. Siari briefly closed her eyes and thanked the woman for fulfilling her purpose, dying to give Siari her rush.

Then, it was back to business. She wiped the soles of her boots on the bed spread and sneaked back out. On to the mark.

Quietly, she closed the door to the dead-woman’s room and crept back to the room next to it, opposite the door she’d barred. This time no one interrupted her, and the lock clicked open, somewhat louder than she’d wanted.

She heard the creaking of a chair in the next room, and boots thudding on the floor. Damn it, he’d heard! How in Oblivion had he heard? Fuck! He’d come through this door, grab his axe, and split Siari in two. Thinking fast, Siari leapt up against the wall, and up again, making her boots and gloves latch on, so she ended suspended upside down on the ceiling.

The man that passed under her had long white hair and a full, white beard, from what she could see. This was the mark alright. All she had to do was wait for the right moment to drop down. When the man put a book back onto a shelf, Siari realized he hadn’t heard the lock click at all, but he’d simply come into the antechamber by coincidence. Good. Siari preferred it when her mark was unaware of her presence. She preferred easy kills that didn’t put her at risk.

The man took another book, then froze, still looking at the bookcase. He hadn’t seen her, couldn’t have.

“Come to kill me, have you, little spider?”

Siari felt a rush of warmth go through her.

“I warn you,” the man said, still without looking up, “Don’t wait until I can reach for my mace, because I show no mercy to assassins.”

Siari didn’t need a second warning, dropping down from the ceiling and landing on the man’s back, drawing the knife Astrid had given her especially for the occasion. Feeling her upper lip pull back behind her mask, she hooked her legs around his waist and her arm around his throat, lifting the knife with the other hand.

The man fought back, smacking his back against the wall, flattening Siari’s ribcage and smashing the wind from her, reducing her downward stab to a worthless arm flop. The mark roared, and whirled around, crushing Siari between himself and the other wall, and again her knife failed to come down. Another roar, and the man barrelled backwards, through the door to his bedchamber, and whirled around, trying to throw her off. Her legs lost their grip on the mark’s waist, and before she knew what happened, an arm reached for her, grabbing her armour between the shoulder blades and lifting her off his back with strength so overwhelming, her elbow hold just let go, her arm pulled away like a reed.

She felt herself being swung through the air, and she came down on the hardwood floor, every bone in her body exploding in pain.

She looked up, and couldn’t believe what she saw. The white-haired man stood spread-legged and adopted a hunched position, his arms by his sides and his hands balled into fists. Siari felt her mouth fall open and her breath stall in her throat. The man was... somehow... gaining mass, his muscles growing, so quickly they split the legs of his trousers and burst through the sleeves of his tunic. His face elongated, and his teeth slowly turned to wicked-looking fangs. Coarse hair was even sprouting from his body.

This was a... this was a...

When the shape-shifting thing raised its leg to step toward her, Siari, without thinking and in a panic, threw the dagger straight at it, not even stopping to consider that the puny dagger wouldn’t do anything even resembling damage to this monster.

And yet, when the dagger hit, embedding itself into the creature’s shoulder, it let out a sharp cry. It brought its other hand up to the injured shoulder, clawing at the dagger and after a few snatches, getting it out and letting the weapon clatter to the floor. Siari crawled backward, but stopped when she saw what was happening.

It seemed paralyzed, somehow, and as it growled and staggered backward, the transformation it was going through seemed to reverse. Galvanized by the monster’s reaction to the dagger throw, Siari sprang back into action, snatching up the dagger and leaping to her feet. She rolled under a clumsy, desperate blow of the beast that had almost fully turned back into a man, and launched herself at his back, again latching onto it. The beast tried to crush her against the wall again, smashing Siari through the door of a cupboard, but this time her knife found true, stabbing her target behind the collarbone, the dagger sinking into the strong, hard trapezium muscle. Her enemy howled in pain, and Siari stabbed again, in the same place.

The thing tried desperately to shake her off, but Siari clung on, bringing the dagger down again and again, stabbing the thing in the back, neck and back of the head, blood spraying onto her mask and the exposed part of her face. She brought the knife down and down and down again, as the man-beast she had latched onto wailed, thrashed and bucked, trying to throw her off in a blind panic.

Eventually, her mark went to its knees and Siari let go, as if dismounting a kneeling horse. The man with the white hair died on his knees, and fell forward, his face bonking into the hardwood floor.

Siari stood looking at the body for a moment, breathing hard as she wiped the blood spatters from her face. She hoped that whatever this man had wasn’t contagious. If it even was an illness.

Wait, but hadn’t Arnbjorn said...

Yes he had! He’d said he was a werewolf. Siari had taken it for a stupid joke, until she’d established that Arnbjorn wasn’t the type to make jokes, and then she’d simply considered it a boast to impress people. But maybe it was actually true. Maybe there really were werewolves. If that was the case, then Arnbjorn would be able to tell her more. If he didn’t just tear her arms off for the fun of it.

And Astrid... had she known about the mark? That he was, apparently, a werewolf? Surely Astrid wouldn’t have sent her there knowing what she really had to kill. Siari hoped so. It was not something you did to a family member.

But first, she had to get out of here, and fulfil the last part of her contract. The blowback-preventer. Stepping over the dead body of the Companions leader, she fished the folded-up note from her breast pocket: the stylized silver hand logo she had to nail to the door with her knife.

Back outside, she closed the door to the mark’s room and held the note against it, lifting the dagger to nail it into the wall.

“Njada? What’s all this racket? What have y – ”

Oblivion damn it, this cellar had two entrances, it would seem. The one she’d barred and then another one at the end of the corridor. And there, at the foot of those stairs, stood a woman in a green tunic. The one who’d been scrubbing. She must have heard the noise.

“Stop... stop right there!” the woman shouted nervously, but Siari had no intention of stopping. And certainly no intention of getting caught.

When the woman saw the knife in Siari’s hand and the blood on her armour, her eyes went wide and she cried in alarm, “Ah... ah... _assassin_!”

She reached for the shortsword at her belt, and Siari realized there was no way out but through. With a back-handed throw, she made the bloodied knife sail through the air, as Nazir had taught her, and by a combination of training and luck, the knife found its target, embedding itself square in the young woman’s chest. She let out a loud “AH!” and staggered backward, then her knees buckled and she went to the ground.

The door behind Siari shook in its jamb as weight was thrown against it, but the bar held. Damn it! More pesky bastards complicating things. She had to finish this and get out. Leave no witnesses.

She sprinted down the corridor towards the fallen woman, and when she reached her, she leapt in the air as high as she could, then came down, her legs uncoiling like a spring, coming down as hard as she could on the hilt of the dagger, her boots impacting the knife even further into her victim’s chest, and her weight, light but coming down hard, crushing the ribcage beneath it. Her eyes briefly locked with those of the fallen woman, who let out a loud "AORGH!" as the knife was driven even deeper into her and the fractured ribs ruptured the organs beneath it. The eyes were pleading, asking her why, and again Siari felt a brief rush of power go through her.

“It’s barred from the other side!” A woman’s voice shouted. “Go around!”

But they’d be too late. Siari was already bolting up the stairs, and as she heard boots pound on the stairs on the far side of the mead hall, she quickly slipped out of the building, and knowing she’d be spotted if she ran for the gates, she hid, lowering herself into the water that flowed through a circular canal dug around a gorgeous blossoming tree. She tucked herself away under the bridge, enduring the cold of the water. Thankfully, the leather armour was water-tight as long as she didn’t submerge her head.

Two people came out, a man and a woman, the man with shoulder-length gray hair, and the woman wearing blue war paint across her face. If she’d run, these people would have caught her, especially the woman, and from the looks of them, their armour and weapons, they probably wouldn’t go down as easily as those two other girls had, but instead chop Siari into bloody chunks. She watched the two run down into the city centre, torches in hand. Good. They’d find nothing there and give up. And that would be when Siari could just walk on out.

She’d done the job right, the mark was dead, and even though the paper had been left on the floor rather than nailed to the wall, the contractor’s message would be crystal clear. In the cold water, Siari took a moment to bask in her pride, knowing that there was no way this would never come back on her.

 


	24. Acrus: Hitting the Books

  **ACRUS**

**Hitting the Books**

**Arch-mage’s quarters, antechamber**

 

He had to admit it to himself, he was terribly nervous. How could he not be? Tolfdir had stormed into his room, told him he’d made an amazing discovery, and ordered him to report to the Arch-mage as soon as he was well. It had to be something amazing if he reported directly to the Arch-mage.

He realized he didn’t even know who the Arch-mage was. He could be a fifteen-year-old Redguard with one eye, or he could be a she, Acrus had no idea. And as he waited in front of the door to the Arch-mage’s quarters, he felt the nerves shriek through his ears. This was his chance to _really_ make an impression. Oh, how the other students would gnash their teeth in envy.

Finally, he mustered up his courage and rapped on the door.

“Come.”

The voice was definitely male, and sounded... Dunmer? He wasn’t sure. He’d know when he opened the door, doubtless.

Indeed, the Arch-mage was a goateed dark Elf, and while Acrus wasn’t overly pleased with that fact – Dunmer were so damn hard to deal with if you weren’t one yourself – his excitement over getting to see the Arch-mage won out.

“Come in, don’t stand there,” the mer said, sitting behind a darkwood desk. “Tolfdir said an Apprentice would be giving the report. It must be something unusual indeed. Tell me boy, what is your name?”

Acrus knew well enough that a semblance of humility was in order, and he would have faked nervousness if faking wasn’t already unnecessary. “Acrus Vadosus, Arch-mage. I’m honoured to speak with you.”

“A new arrival I was told. And already making ripples. Interesting.” Acrus felt his heart flutter. “So. Your report?”

“Err, yes. I was part of an expedition under the ruins of Saarthal, where we found an amulet fragment – ”

“Yes, I’m aware, and you laid the soul of Jyrik Gauldursson to rest.”

“I uh... Indeed, we did.” If this mer already knew everything, why did Tolfdir need Acrus to bring him the report?

“Tolfdir delivered me the writ of sealing you found by the body.” The Arch-mage unfolded a paper and read out loud, “Be bound here, murderer, betrayer, condemned by your crimes...” he trailed off, folding the paper again. “... et cetera. It’s an interesting story, and the amulet you found is certainly a prize, but I’m still not sure why he was so over-excited.”

“Uh... I don’t know, Arch-mage, he merely told me to report to you.”

The Arch-mage turned and went to stand by the window, looking out at the falling snow. “Well, I suppose if that is all, then I thank you for your report, Apprentice. It’s been good meeting you.”

Wait, there was one more thing. “Arch-mage, it slipped my mind, but we found one other thing.”

Savos Aren turned back to Acrus. “Yes?”

He folded back the cloth around the orb he was holding. “This... object seems to have given Gauldursson his power... or protected it. Or both.”

“Hm,” the Arch-mage said, inspecting the object. “Looks like a protection orb. A powerful version, but still quite run-of-the-mill... although...”

Warmth rose in Acrus’ chest as he prayed for this object to be the exciting revelation Tolfdir had been talking about. The Arch-mage took the object and his eyes narrowed as he probed the orb with his scrying power. When the tension came off his face, he grinned broadly. “Apprentice, this is an interesting find indeed. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”

Acrus swallowed and hoped he didn’t do something tremendously stupid by asking, “I don’t suppose I’m allowed to know what it is?”

The Arch-mage smiled, to Acrus’ relief. “Allowed, yes. But it’s too early to be certain.” He stopped to think for a while. “I may have a job for you, if you’re up for it?”

“I... certainly, but... the lectures...”

“Nevermind those. This is important, and from what Tolfdir tells me, you’re somewhat ahead of the others anyway.” Acrus’ felt his chest swell. “This item,” he held up the orb, “is not just any old protection orb. But before we can determine for certain what it is, we need more information. Mirabelle Ervine will be your contact in this. Report your findings to her, and she will do what’s necessary.”

An assignment from the Arch-mage himself! Even if he had to go through the Master Wizard, it was still huge, and the Master Wizard herself also wasn’t a small shrimp in this College. The name he’d be able to make for himself! “Yes Arch-mage, I will do whatever needs to be done.”

“Good man. Now, I understand you had some problems with the darkness under Saarthal?”

Oh my, now to answer in a way that made him look good, but that wasn’t an outright lie. “I’m sure rumours have been greatly exaggerated.”

The Arch-mage chuckled. “Indeed. Well, let me make sure no opportunity for exaggeration will occur in the future.” He reached under his desk and produced a short staff. “Staves of Magelight aren’t exactly plentiful, but they’re just common enough to be an appropriate reward for an Apprentice.”

He handed the staff to Acrus, who accepted it with slightly unstable hands and a polite thanks. His first staff! Oh, this would make the others seethe with jealousy. Even if it was ‘only’ a Magelight staff.

“I will inform the Master Wizard. Meanwhile, go on to Urag gro-Shub in the Arcanaeum, and ask him if he has books pertaining to...” he stopped himself. “No, hold on, better to do it this way.” He bent over his desk and jotted down a few words on a piece of paper, folded it, then dripped a puddle of wax on it from a nearby candle. His ring left a seal in the wax, and the missive was complete. “Give this to Urag gro-Shub. It’s best if you do not open it. We need to keep this under the lid for now.”

Acrus stared at the paper in his hand, looking disappointed that he was being left in the dark, but the Arch-mage laid his hand on his shoulder and said, “Not before we’re certain. If this is what I think it is, things will be revealed to you in time, but for now I need your trust.”

There was only one thing for Acrus to say, and that was, “And you have it, of course, Arch-mage.”

“Good. Like I said, Mirabelle Ervine is your contact for now. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Arch-mage.”

As luck would have it, he almost bumped into Mirabelle Ervine as he came down the stairs. “Ah, Master Wizard. Forgive me for troubling you,” Acrus began, “but the Arch-mage – ”

She stopped him with a patient smile. “I know, he’s informed me already.”

“He has? But I just – ”

Another smile. “We have ways of communicating beyond face-to-face meetings. For now, go see Urag gro-Shub in the Arcanaeum. See if he has the books we need, and bring them to me. If this is what the Arch-mage thinks it is, it might be something massive.” She leaned in closer. “One thing, though. Apart from the Arch-Mage and myself, you speak of this to no one. Not even Tolfdir. If he asks, simply say we asked you to keep silent for now. Refer him to us if he insists.” She looked around furtively. “It’s not that I don’t trust him, but the less people know about this, the better. Urag won’t ask questions, I know him too well, but if someone else does, you do not answer, under any circumstance. Is this understood?”

It meant he’d have to wait before turning his fellows green with envy, but that would make it all the sweeter. “Completely, Master Wizard.”

“Good. Now then, the books. Get to it.”

“At once.”

She nodded. “Arcanaeum’s over that way.”

Urag gro-Shub. Wasn’t exactly a name that conjured up images of a dignified Altmer librarian. It sounded Orsimer. But that couldn’t be. Surely the College’s librarian couldn’t be an _Orc_. They were liable to eat the books rather than catalogue them.

The books weren’t eaten (at least, not those he could see), but the librarian was definitely Orsimer, with a long white beard and white receding hair tied into a topknot. He looked like a troll that had been put into a yellow robe and then strategically shaved. Acrus figured he’d be lucky to get a full sentence out of the man, let alone actual information.

“I see from your face,” the librarian grunted, returning Acrus’ frown in kind, “that you’re none too hopeful about an Orcish librarian.”

Warmth flushed up in Acrus’ chest, rising to his head. “Uh... I wasn’t aware of – ”

“Good. So at least it wasn’t deliberate.” The frown remained.

“Uh, look,” Acrus began. He’d have to work the charm a bit. “It’s not every day you see an Orcish librarian, you know? I’m from a simple town, got stereotypes hammered into my head, and now I see all these unexpected things. I just needed a minute to make sense of it all. You know?”

“Hmph. I suppose it can be a bit hard to wrap your head around. And yours isn’t _the_ most inconsiderate face I’ve gotten since I became librarian. Urag gro-Shub is the name. And you are?”

“Oh, right, sorry, Acrus. I’m uh, a new Initiate, on a mission... uh, _errand_ for the Archmage. Looking for some books?”

“Ah, a new Initiate. It must all seem new and wondrous to you now, doesn’t it?”

Acrus resented being so patronized by an Orc, but he knew better than to react on it. “Yes, it’s a new world opening for me.” The library itself was a high-domed room, with shelves and shelves, stacked with books and books.The Orc was able to form a coherent sentence, so with some luck, he could actually locate specific books in this massive library. Acrus supposed he wouldn’t have the job if he wasn’t capable of at least that.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, right.” Acrus presented him the paper. “These are the books I n... the Arch-mage needs.”

The librarian deftly tore the envelope open after inspecting the seal, then whistled between his sharp teeth. “ _These_.”

“That... didn’t sound very promising.”

The Orc nodded. “I’ve got some bad news for the Arch-mage. The books he needs, well...”

“Let me guess, they’re not here?”

“Indeed. One of my apprentices, a mer by the name of Orthorn, he ah... stole them a while ago.” He seemed more than a bit embarrassed at the fact. “I wager the late fees didn’t impress him very much.”

“I... see. Any chance you can tell me where he was headed?”

The librarian wrung his green hands. “I was hoping you’d ask that. He was on his way to a place called Fellglow Keep, to investigate the summoners there. He never came back, and he wasn’t the type to take unnecessary risks. Either something happened to him, or he defected. Neither possibility is very appealing.”

Acrus sighed. The Arch-mage would expect him to show some initiative. And that probably meant hoofing it to wherever that place was and getting those damn books back. “So it looks I’ll have to head to Fellglow Keep then, don’t I? Unless there’s other copies of those books that I can rustle up somewhere?”

Urag gro-Shub stared at the Arch-mage’s paper. “ _These_? Oh no, I doubt you’ll find a copy.”

With another sigh, Acrus resigned to the situation. “Right. Where do I find Fellglow Keep?”

“You head to Whiterun, then East. Here’s a map of Skyrim.” He took a folded paper from one of his desk drawers, presenting him a crude map of the province. He marked Whiterun, and then drew a line of dubitable steady-handedness to the East, ending it with a cross. “That’s where it is. Good luck, Initiate.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He realized full well he was being sent to do this Orc’s dirty work, but the Arch-mage wouldn’t appreciate him returning empty-handed.

“Oh, one more thing. In case you find yourself at odds with those summoners... here’s a Banish scroll.” With a gleeful grin, he added, “sends all those summoned critters right back to Oblivion and leaves the summoner naked like a baby in the woods.”

With the scroll tucked in the loop on his belt, Acrus strode to the exit. The Arch-mage had given this task to him, and that meant he had the right to skip classes. The others were bumbling cantrip-casters anyway.

“You there!” a sharp, cultured voice commanded behind him as he approached the gates. “I have questions for you.”

Acrus turned to see a tall Altmer, clad in decorated Elvish armour, stride towards him. The armour was clearly Elvish, but of a design he hadn’t seen yet, not like the gilded eyesores the Altmer in Cyrodiil wore. He also wore a long coat over it, coloured as darkly as the armour.

“Questions, for me?” Acrus asked.

The mer came closer, his elongated face knotted into an impatient frown below his receding gray hairline. “Yes, you. You were in Saarthal, yes?”

“I was part of the exped – ”

“I would ask you about what you found there. An artefact of some power, yes?”

Acrus wasn’t about to let himself get intimidated by this pompous, arrogant bastard. “Forgive me, but I find it more than a bit rude to interrogate me without introducing or identifying yourself. Who are you to ask me all these questions?”

The mer’s face stayed more or less straight, but Acrus could tell the inflated prat was keeping himself from exploding in indignation. “I am Ancano, _human_ , Emissary of the Thalmor.”

“The who?”

The mer rolled his eyes and sighed, “Should have known I’d have to deal with the braindead one. The Thalmor, _human_ , are the governmental representation of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. Unless you are completely dense, you can see how this makes us a force you do not want to antagonize. Now, the artefact – ”

“Let me stop you there,” Acrus said, determined not to let himself get coerced into blabbing. “I don’t say anything without permission from the Arch-mage, and if you think you can just strong-arm me into telling you – ”

“Without permission from the Arch-mage, is it?” The Altmer said with a smirk. “The Arch-mage himself told you not to speak of it?”

“That’s correct.”

His smirk widening, the Altmer simply said, “Then I know enough. Good day.” With that, he turned and strode back in, leaving Acrus to realize he had been, at least partly, had. But what should he have said? The bastard would have concluded that it was important no matter what.

Acrus sighed and shrugged. He’d done what the Arch-mage had ordered – send any questions his way – and anything that came of it wasn’t his fault. And like milk, there was no crying over spilled beans.

His journey first led him to Whiterun, where he came across a strange figure, dressed like a jester, who’d run his cart into the mud. He’d asked for Acrus’ help, but when Acrus had seen that the axle had broken, he’d told him he needed more than an extra pair of hands and left the creep there. From there, he plodded on eastward, walking past a brewery where several men were busy passing buckets and throwing water on the smouldering beehives in the early morning light. Seemed like someone had gotten careless with his pipe.

Following gro-Shub’s scrawling was an ordeal, but eventually, he noticed the pointed rock indicated on the map, and navigating on that landmark, he came upon an old, ruined keep. Seemed like he’d found Fellglow. Now, for the hard part, to find this Orthorn character. If he wasn’t gone already... but somehow Acrus doubted it. Either he’d be dead, or he’d defected, gro-Shub had said. Either way, he probably wouldn’t have gone far. He kneeled in the bushes around the keep and observed the place, but for an hour, nothing came or went. He knew there was someone in there though, since he’d seen a torch pass by one of the openings in the wall.

It would seem he’d have to go in himself. Damnit. But just as he was about to emerge from his hiding place, a man in mage robes came out the door, locked it with a key, and went to stand with his face to the wall a bit further. Acrus wondered if the man had been punished and sent outside for a time-out, but the he saw him hitch his robe up and spread his legs, and he understood what he was doing.

Carefully, Acrus sneaked closer. From what he’d heard from Urag gro-Shub, these summoners were rather nefarious types, so he didn’t intend to take any chances.

As the unknown mage groaned in relief, Acrus took position behind him, holding his staff of magelight high. He figured he might as well do the guy the courtesy of waiting until his pee break was over before clobbering him over the back of the head.

As the man let out a short sigh of relief and let his robe back down, Acrus whacked him over the head with the staff. There was a dry clack as the enchanted wood connected with the man’s balding pate, and he fell down, crumpling to the ground.

“Haha,” Acrus said, striking a triumphant pose. “The first of the evil mages lies unconscious by my hand, felled by – ”

The mage cursed and got back to his feet, holding his head. Acrus’ pose immediately became less victory-like, and with two hands, he brought the staff down again and again, missing the man’s head and uselessly clubbing him on the shoulders, unaware that he looked like a prissy maid trying to squash a mouse. The mage clawed at his robe, but before he could actually stand upright, Acrus’ staff did find true, and this time the man went down for good.

After standing over him for a few seconds, staff held in two hands like an idiot, Acrus was convinced the man was well and truly out. Taking the mage’s belt, he tied the man’s hands behind his back, fastening them to an iron ring in the wall. Then he tore off a strip of his robe and bound it into a gag. He’d be fine as long as no hungry bears crossed his path. A big bump was forming on his bald skull.

Acrus fished the key from his pocket and crept toward the keep. Opening the door, he peered inside, but saw nothing, except a flickering torch put into a wall socket. Good.

He didn’t know how big this keep was, in the sense that it probably had basement levels and whatnot, and he had to be careful every step of the way. Better to stay unseen and silent than to get a bunch of fire- and ice-slinging mages after him. He doubted the little ward he’d cast in the College would make an impression. He crept forward, stopping just short of a female mage who lay on a cot, sleeping and snoring like her life depended on it. Acrus realized he’d be best off just cutting her throat or strangling her, or whatever it was these vulgar assassins did, but despite his flaws (of which he was well aware and often even proud), he found the sanctity of life a thing to be respected. He’d never killed anyone in his life, and he didn’t want to start now. So he simply resorted to quietly casting a Sleep spell to bring the woman even further into dreamland, then stepped over her and went on.

The Keep didn’t turn out to be very big after all, but after seeing no more people on the ground floor, Acrus noticed a broad staircase leading to the basement. Great, more dark rooms to explore, and using his staff of magelight was a bad idea, for obvious reasons.

He crept down the stairs and found himself into what looked like a prison. In the middle of the far wall stood a desk, and behind it sat another mage, with his back to Acrus. There were niches in the walls, some of them barred, others open. And behind one of the sets of bars was a man, looking straight at him, his mouth open in surprise.

Acrus, his heart beating fast, put his index finger on his lips. The mer (because he was clearly Altmer), nodded in compliance. The man sitting with his back to Acrus was hunched over, probably peering at a book or something, and if Acrus was quiet, he’d be able to clock him over the head just like he’d done with the other mage. Well, hopefully in a less ridiculous fashion.

He closed the distance, but when he was halfway there, the mage yawned and stretched, and Acrus saw the Altmer prisoner’s face become tense. Acrus froze and hoped the man wouldn’t turn around, but when he made to rise from his chair, Acrus knew that was idle hope.

“Hey, you!” the prisoner suddenly shouted. “Either you empty this shit bucket or I’m going to start lobbing handfuls at your head!”

Ah, good thinking on the distracting move!

“Be quiet, elfling,” the mage said back in a bored voice. “Or I’m roasting you right there in your cell.”

“I mean it, you human pig. I’m about to start throwing the contents of this bucket at you!”

The prison-guarding mage stood up and trudged lazily at the bars. Acrus saw his opportunity to creep closer. “I’d like to see you try, College-boy.”

Acrus crept closer and closer while the prisoner kept doing his job of distracting his guard.

“Just empty this damn shit bucket and you won’t _have_ to see me try. Is a little humane treatment so much to ask?”

“Look here, you’re lucky we didn’t feed you to the Caller’s spiders instead of throwing you in a cell. Would you have preferred that?”

Acrus crept even closer.

“Well at least I’d be rid of the stink!”

Acrus raised his staff, ready to whack the mage over the head.

Just one more step.

 _Tink_!

His boot hit a pewter cup that had been standing on the floor, for the one, single purpose of foiling Acrus’ sneaking attempt.

The prisoner’s eyes went wide, and the guarding mage whirled around. Acrus brought his staff down, and caught the mage in the face, but the blow glanced off his cheekbone without more effect than some good old pain. The mage launched himself at Acrus and bowled him over. They both fell to the ground, his opponent on top of him, but Acrus managed to set his foot against the man’s chest and propel him backward, against the bars. Snatching up his staff, Acrus prepared to defend himself, but the man didn’t come at him.

He was caught with his back to the bars, and the prisoner’s arms hooked around his neck, struggling, clawing at the mer behind him, and making cramped faces.

“Don’t kill him,” Acrus told the prisoner.

“Why not?” the mer grunted, strangling the man with all the strength he still had.

“Because... because they didn’t kill you either.” Acrus wasn’t ready to see a man die. Not even these guys, whoever they were. “Come on, man. Don’t do it.”

“Listen,” the prisoner hissed to the mage. “You’re lucky this man wants you to stay alive. You’d be dead if it wasn’t for him. Now the choice is yours. Either you resist while he ties you to the bars, and give me a good reason to strangle you like a chicken, or you stay calm and let yourself be tied up. What’s it going to be?”

The man only grunted inarticulately, unable to speak from the pressure on his throat and jaw.

“I think he agrees,” the prisoner said.

Acrus snatched a few lengths of rope from a shelf and lashed the man’s wrists and feet to the bars. Then he fished in the new prisoner’s robe for the key, and unlocked the Altmer’s cell. The door swung open, with the captured mage pedalling along with it, and Acrus’ new friend came shuffling out. He looked badly underfed, his bones visible even through the rough sack cloth he wore. “Thanks for that. Judging from the robes, I’m guessing you’re from the College?”

“I am.”

He nodded. “Name’s Orthorn. Was sent here to uh... investigate these summoners for suspicious activity, and found a lot of that before they subdued me and stuck me in this cage.”

“Acrus. And yes, I’ve been looking for you. More specifically, the books you ‘borrowed’ from the College.”

The mer chuckled, stretching his back. “Yes. Figured those would interest them more than some not-particularly-talented Initiate.” He had a sharp face, even for an Altmer, and a hooked nose. “Well, those books... I don’t have them, but I’ve got a pretty good idea of where they are.”

“Better than nothing, I guess. So where?”

“You heard my friend here,” he roughly rubbed the captured mage’s head, “already mention the name ‘the Caller’, right?”

“Uh... possibly, I was too busy trying not to die to pay attention.”

“Mm. Well, she’s probably got them. I’d... advise against going up against her though.”

“Why’s that?”

The man took a moment to find the least offensive words. “You’re... obviously inexperienced, and she’s a summoner of great power. Not like these”, he tapped the bound mage’s cheek, “hedge wizards.”

“Well, I’m not going back without those books.”

Orthorn walked over to the desk and snatched up the cheese that lay on it, stuffing it in his mouth. “Well, your funeral,” he said, muffled through a mouthful of cheese.”

“Yours too,” Acrus said. “You’re coming with me. It’s your fault this... Caller or whoever she is, got hold of those books.”

He held up his hands, still munching the cheese. “Fine, fine. Should have known my ticket out of here wouldn’t be free.”

“Nothing’s free in life,” Acrus merely said.

“Come on, I know where she is. But first...” Putting down the cheese, he walked over to his cell, past the bound mage, and in one quick motion, lifted the shit bucket and emptied it over his erstwhile prison guard’s head, drenching his hair, face and robes in a shower if yellow and brown. The stink was horrible. “See?” Orthorn scolded. “If you’d done as I asked, this bucket would have been empty.”

The bound man could do no more than sputter and heave in disgust.

“Come on,” Orthorn said, leading Acrus through the hallways of the basement. “The summoning room’s at the end. The door was open when they dragged me to my cell. Don’t know why they kept me alive, but it was probably to sacrifice me in some maniac Daedra summoning ritual.”

“And we’ll find this Caller person in there?”

Orthorn merely shrugged.

“Right.”

Acrus and his new companion carefully opened the door at the end of the corridor. A woman, Altmer by the looks of her posture (a lot of Altmer crossing Acrus’ path these days), stood with her back to them, hunched over a book.

“Akhad, you better have brought me that deathbell extract or there’s going to be Oblivion to pay. Put it on the – ”

She fell quiet when she saw the two from the College standing in the doorway. Her hood was down, and all Acrus and Orthorn could see was her pale, narrow face, drawn with the lines of middle age. She’d smeared some kind of war paint over her eyes, making her look even more sinister. “So. Our prisoner roams freely. And he’s brought a guest.”

“We’re just here for the books,” Acrus said, trying to sound calm despite the knot in his stomach and his pounding heart. This Caller didn’t sound like a dabbler, and even with his new ally, he’d be in big trouble if this one started slinging spells. “We haven’t killed anyone, and we’re not looking for a fight. All we want is the College books.”

“Not looking for a fight?” the Altmer said, crossing her arms, a smirk on her face. “Weaklings always say they aren’t looking for a fight. I’ll wager if you felt you could take me on, you’d be talking differently.”

“No,” Acrus said flatly. “I don’t like fighting, or hurting people. I just want to bring those books back to the College.” Trying to inject some humour in the conversation, he added, “And I’ll even waiver the late fees.”

The wizard chuckled. “Well, I must hand it to you, you’ve got nerve for being so puny.” Hope flared up in Acrus’ chest. “But no, you’re not leaving with those books. If you turn around now, however, you may just leave with your lives.” Sneering, she added in turn, “and I’ll even waiver the lodging fees for Orthorn.”

He wanted to take the offer, he really did, but he knew he had to return with those books. “I appreciate it, but I just can’t leave without those books, much as I’d want to.”

“Then you have but one choice, it seems, no?” the Caller said back, stone calm and clearly more than ready to blast these two apprentices into Oblivion.

“I can offer you one,” Acrus said, swallowing. “The College knows I’m here.” Well, the librarian at least. “They’ll come looking for me, and they won’t send apprentices this time.”

The Caller threw her head back and laughed. “Let them come. And if your ghost finds some way to speak with the living when this is done, go ahead and ask your _Master Wizard_ if her legs still itch. I wager they do, after my spiders bit them black and bloated. Oh, the salty tears Collette Marence cried when she tried to stop the venom and had to resort to cutting her friend’s legs open to let the death out. I didn’t get the chance to see the scars yet, but I will some day.”

“She’s trying to intimidate you,” Orthorn grunted at him. “She’s nowhere near that powerful.”

Still, the story made an impression on Acrus, true or not.

“It... it doesn’t matter,” he stammered. “Just... give us the books and we’ll go, and you can do... whatever it is you do here.”

“I believe I’ve been more than generous after you’ve broken into my keep and tried to threaten me into giving you those books.” She snorted. “That you even dare to threaten me is the biggest insult.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Orthorn muttered.

“Look, we don’t want – ” Acrus began, but the Caller raised her hand and in two swirls of light, a creature appeared on either side of her. They looked like spiders, but they were far too big, at least the size of a pony, and twisted in shape. They did not attack, but they clearly needed nothing more than a signal to do so. Black venom dripped from their mandibles as their eight beady black eyes looked at the two morsels, eager to devour them.

“Last chance,” the Caller said. “Leave or you’ll spend your days slowly being liquefied as my spiders use you as a silk-wrapped feed bag.”

“Those... those come straight from Oblivion,” Orthorn breathed, creeping backward. “They resist the elements, our magick is useless against them. We’re dead if they attack. We have to _go_.”

But Acrus saw his chance. Focusing his inner eye, he saw that the Caller, while looking unfazed, had expended nearly all her energy in the summoning, the waves of power emanating from her dim and colourless. Why wouldn’t she have? With those spiders, she didn’t need any more power of her own. “We don’t,” Acrus said, determined. “Caller, this is your last chance. Give us the books or die here.”

“Are you insane?” Orthorn hissed, while the Caller looked on, amused. “Those things will _kill us_.”

“No they won’t. What’s it going to be, Caller?”

The summoner sighed and said, with clearly feigned disappointment, “I warned you, but you didn’t listen. Nerve you have, apprentice, but you’ve exhausted my patience. Now you die.”

The woman motioned the spiders forward, and as Orthorn turned and ran, with a shriek, the things leapt at them, but before they reached the two apprentices, Acrus pulled the scroll from his belt and opened it, letting it crumble to dust as its magick was released. His eyes closed, Acrus felt something hairy give a short but hard thump against his chest, knocking him on his ass, but that was all. He opened his eyes again to see the spiders were gone, and let out the built-up air in his lungs. Gro-Shub had thankfully not put a piece of junk in his hands.

“What?” the Caller shouted, and Acrus saw that a bit of colour and vibrance had returned to the waves around her. When he saw the flash of flame form in her hand, he quickly pulled the strands around him out of the air and shaped them into a fire ward, like he’d done at the College.

Tolfdir’s lesson paid off when he saw the flames flash off the transparent shield before him. The ward stopped the flames, but collapsed under the might of the Caller’s spell, leaving him vulnerable. There were still some traces of colour around the Caller, and he was knocked flat and unable to muster up another defence. Frantically, he plucked at the strands that floated around him, but in his haste, he tore the fragile bonds of energy and his second ward fizzled, the power waves around him retreating in a flash.

The Caller conjured up another flame burst, the fire dancing around her hands. “Nice try, apprentice, but you’re going to _burn_.”

His power expended, Acrus could only raise his hands to uselessly shield himself from the fire that was sure to consume him.

“Remember what I said. If your ghost can somehow converse with the living, tell the College of your utter failure.”

Acrus closed his eyes and waited for his death.

The air crackled and the smell of ozone blasted into Acrus’ nostrils, the light so hard it came through his eyelids, coloured red. His eyes flew open and he saw the Caller, spasming and jerking as crackling threads of electricity jumped across her body. When the woman’s muscles stopped twitching, another bolt of electricity hit her, this one even more powerful than the first, sending her into another throe of shaking and convulsing. Acrus briefly saw a wisp of lightning come out of her open mouth.

The energy expended, she fell to the ground, trails of smoke rising from her body.

Acrus got to his feet and saw Orthorn standing, his hand still extended.

“And then the College said I wasn’t particularly talented.”

“Yeah,” Acrus gasped. “That was... some fine lightning boltery. Is she... dead?”

“I doubt it,” Orthorn said. He stepped over to her and put his boot down on her throat. The Caller’s hands feebly went up and Acrus heard the rattling of breath come from her face.

He came closer and saw what the lightning blast had done to the Altmer, now clad in a blackened and curled robe. It was almost enough to make him feel pity. The skin on the Caller’s face was heavily burned, bright red in most places, and charred black in others, the smoke rising from her skin stinking so badly it made Acrus’ stomach heave.

“Looks like I hit her harder than I thought,” Orthorn merely said.

“No... no reason to kill her, though. She’s... obviously harmless.”

“There is a reason to kill her,” Orthorn said. “There’s many reasons.”

“Look,” Acrus explained. “She really can’t do much in this state. And she’s completely defenceless.”

“Well how’s this for a reason then?” Orthorn asked, his eyes flashing. “She won’t recover. No one recovers from this. She has to die, to be put out of her misery if nothing else.” Without another word, Orthorn brought his boot up and stamped it down on her throat, crushing her windpipe.

The Caller gasped for breath for a few seconds, then her hands fell to her side. Acrus just stood there, looking, nailed to the ground.

“She was too dangerous to be left alive anyway,” Orthorn simply said, then he walked to a nearby pedestal. “Here’s your books.” He pushed three volumes in Acrus’ hands.

He didn’t even register taking them.

“Hey, snap out of it,” Orthorn barked. “You look like you’ve never seen a person die before.”

“I... I haven’t,” Acrus said sullenly. “Not actually... dying.” For a moment, it was as if it was Anorra lying there, her body twisted and torn, guts hanging out of her belly, red and shiny on the dusty cobblestones, reflecting the uncaring sunlight. Then he was back in the dank basement, and the corpse was once more the Caller’s.

 


	25. Roë: Homecoming

**ROË**

**Homecoming**

**A cold, lonely shore**

 

“I’ll go check if I can steal a boat. You gonna be alright?”

Depended what Serana meant by ‘alright’. ‘Alright’, as in, not going to keel over and die again, then yes, she was fine. ‘Alright’ as in, not feeling utterly miserable and alone, then no. Still, Roë nodded slowly.

Serana walked off, leaving Roë on the icy shore, the cold creeping into her wet boots. She only noticed vaguely, the memories of her last hope being shattered weighing on her mind. The vision of Agmaer, an innocent young lad who just tried to do the right thing, now lying dead with his pa’s axe next to him. Just some farm boy who wanted to make a name for himself. Be a hero, maybe. Roë had taken all that from him, in a moment of abandon, not knowing her own strength. Kicked him straight off the battlements. There were people who enjoyed killing, who enjoyed the feeling of power that came with taking everything away from someone, but Roë wasn’t one of them.

How she wished she could take back what she’d done. It seemed that part of humanity – uselessly wishing to turn back time – still belonged to her. Only the sad, empty, and painful parts remained. How Serana could be so light-hearted about it, Roë had no idea.

Was it all in her mind? These negative, self-tormenting feelings? Maybe she just acted and felt that way because she’d been told that Vampires were supposed to act and feel that way. Maybe just changing her attitude might work.

It was worth giving a try. Anything was worth giving a try if it meant even the smallest chance of not having to ‘live’ like this forever.

“Hey, Roë? Guess what?” Serana’s voice sounded from a distance.

Roë pushed all the negative feelings deep down and forced a smile to her face. “You’ve found the occasion to rob some poor fisherman of his livelihood?”

“Hey,” Serana said in mock apology. “You know what they say. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, but steal his boat and you, uh... teach him boat-building?”

Roë let out a fake chuckle, joining Serana at the small rowboat. “Well, he can always fish with a spear. So where we going? Across?”

“M-hm.” Serana pointed to the distance. “See that uh... vague castle-like shape over there?”

Roë peered at the gray early morning sky and saw what looked like a turret before the clouds covered it again.

“Well, that vague castle-like shape, is actually – you’d never expect it – a castle. It’s where my father lives. Uh, well... resides.”

“Right. Think he’ll be happy to see you again?”

Serana’s face darkened as she stared out over the sea. “He’ll be happy yes. But for the right reasons?”

Roë fought hard to keep the conversation on a bit of a cheerful tone. “Ooh, family drama?”

“Mmh, and not even a little bit. It’s a long story,” Serana said as she stooped to push the boat out to sea. “Let’s try and get there before the sun’s up. It’s overcast but still, pretty unpleasant. Try not to get your tootsies too wet when you step in.”

“Too late for that anyway. So, now we take a romantic rowboat ride on the foamy waves?”

“If you consider it romantic to be in an ice cold little boat, lashed by the wind, with a person of the same gender, then yes, this is the stuff of romance novels.” She looked at her back pensively, but then said, “I’m sure this scroll will survive the occasional droplet of water.” Why she lugged that scroll around, Roë didn’t know.

She doubted the clouds would look so grey to her eyes if she were still alive. Probably not. For the living, even grey clouds had a bit of colour, a bit of yellow from where the sun’s light warmed them where they were thin. The sea would have a slight green or blue hint to it. But not to Roë. She’d never known anything could be so _grey_. Even the drift ice was grey, surrounded by grey slush. And everything was so damn sharp. So damn defined.

They were in the Northern reaches of Skyrim, at the roof of Nirn. Even now, in spring, the cold was terrible, even worse than in Solitude. And somehow Roë didn’t feel it as much as she would have in life. She wished she did.

Serana quietly rowed, not even asking Roë to help.

The castle came into view and damn it if it didn’t look like the typical castles in illustrations of vampire books. Books Roë had always considered to be fantasy work. It was high, with thick walls, jagged spires and sharp parapets, constructed in black stone, on an island so small it looked like the castle just rose out of the sea. Tiny windows let flickering torchlight through, the flames cold and pale, with no warmth in them.

The boat ground to a halt on the stony shore, and Serana and Roë disembarked, still in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, and none of them pleasant.

“This is it, then,” Serana said, looking up at the walls and battlements, the stone almost pure black. Roë’s skin began to prickle and burn uncomfortably.

“See what my father has to say after not seeing me for... uh... a lot of years.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Roë said. “Hey uh, I’m getting a really serious burning sensation on my skin. That the sunlight?”

“Yes. It’s almost up. A little longer and a little less clouds and you’ll be weeping as your blood boils and your skin becomes searing hot.” She made a guilty face. “Let’s... not wait for that. Sorry about the hesitation, let’s just head in.”

“Will you be alright?” Roë asked as they quickly walked to the gates. There was a small tower beside them, but the gate to the actual castle was across a short bridge. The sea was under it and all around them, washing against the supports of the bridge as it had done for all eternity.

“I hope so,” Serana said quietly. “My father and I, we... didn’t part on good terms.”

“Maybe all these years have given him the wisdom he needs to realize having his daughter back is the only thing that matters?”

Serana shrugged. “Possibly. But then I wonder why I was still in that sarcophagus after all those years.”

“Uh... good point.” Roë’s skin began to feel inflamed and heat waves flushed through her. She thought she’d welcome a warm feeling inside after all this cold, but it wasn’t a pleasant warmth. It was as if all the blood in her veins was slowly heating up to a boiling point. Which, if she could believe Serana, it probably was. There was no way she’d be able to see the sun like this, not with this pain. But she had to. She vowed to herself to look right into the sun one day, to feel its warmth on her skin, no matter how briefly or how painfully. To see flowers awake to the kiss of dawn, even for a moment.

“Hurting much?”

“I feel like I’m about to burst into flames,” Roë grunted as they hurried across the bridge.”

“Almost there. Don’t worry, the sun won’t kill you, but boy is it ever painful.”

“Yeah, no cack.”

“Come on, we’re here.” Serana pushed the heavy double doors open, and when Roë slipped inside the castle, she immediately felt her skin cool all the way down to the dead, icy cold it always had now, but that she’d already forgotten. She didn’t know which was worse, the burning, scalding feeling of the sun, or the lifeless chill of death. It felt like being naked and wet in the winter air.

“Phew,” Serana said. “I could use a snack now.”

“Don’t look at me,” Roë tried to joke despite feeling utterly miserable.

“How many times are you gonna keep saying that?” Serana said with a grin. “I don’t eat people who free me from sarcophagi, I told you.”

“Good. Because I’d be slim pickings right about now. I’m... kinda hungry.”

Serana nodded. “The sun’ll do that to you. Don’t worry, there’s always a hot meal in Castle Volkihar.”

Castle Volkihar was every bit as sinister on the inside as it was from without. The stones were just as dark, absorbing the light that came from the torches set into the walls. They were in the atrium now, and Roë assumed the main hall lay just beyond the double doors, made of dark wood and set with bronze bands. The colours here seemed a bit more saturated than they were in the rest of the world. Roë wondered if it was deliberate, if the vampires of this castle had made the colours extra bright to be able to see them like a normal person would, in a failed attempt at recreating something resembling life. She figured it wouldn’t be an abnormal reaction.

Serana stepped up to the double doors and held her hands against them. “Ready to meet my father?”

“You say that like we’re going to get married,” Roë tried to keep their spirits up.

“I’m over a thousand years old, you’re around twenty. That would be weird,” Serana said with a grin. “Now come on. Let’s go say hello. Oh, and just so you know, my father was old-fashioned even when he was alive, so... best to address him with Lord Harkon, and only when he speaks to you.”

“Fine.” Roë had other things to care about than having to observe etiquette.

Serana briefly closed her eyes. “Here goes.”

The double doors swung open, into the main hall, where tables draped with bright red table-cloth were set in a U-pattern, and covered in plates, goblets, and dishes. On every plate, on every dish, in every bowl, lay raw, still-bloody meat, and every goblet was filled with a red substance that certainly wasn’t wine. Several humanoid shapes sat at the tables, and their heads went up when the doors opened. Their mouths were smeared with blood.

A moment of silence fell as the pair stood in the doorway, all eyes on them.

“This is... not a warm welcome,” Serana observed.

At length, one vampire stood up from the table, a heavy mace in her hand, and cautiously stepped towards them.

Serana promptly slipped into the guise of the dignified young noblewoman, so effortlessly Roë knew this wasn’t an act, but another, very real side of her. “This is Lord Harkon’s castle still, I presume?” Her nose in the air, she addressed the mace-wielding vampire like she was a servant. “Go fetch him.”

The other vampire cocked her head, caught unawares by the haughty tone. She was young-looking, younger than Roë. Probably been made a vampire when she was still in her late teens. Of course, that meant nothing in respect to her current age and power. Above her sunken cheeks lay eyes that were as terrifyingly beautiful as Serana’s, but somehow... less piercing, like a paler, weaker version. Despite the sunken cheeks though, her face still bore a youthful attraction. “And who may I say wishes to see him?” the vampire asked, her voice nasal and childlike, even to her young features. She asked it without hostility, obviously intent on playing it safe, which Roë estimated was a wise move.

Serana clearly wanted to identify herself as dramatically as possible. “Tell him someone long lost has returned, and that he should come see for himself.”

“I don’t think Lord Harkon would find it – ”

“Fura, please,” an Altmer vampire commanded, rising from his chair and striding to the two new arrivals. “Our guest is clearly important and shouldn’t be bothered by your inane questions.” The Altmer shooed the younger vampire away and when she didn’t move, he simply stepped in front of her, prompting a furious glare at his back. “My name is Vingalmo, please forgive Fura’s rudeness and allow me to escort you to our Lord.” He had a narrow face, like all Altmer, but made even more so by his vampirism. His eyes seemed a bit more intense than the Nord girl’s, but still nowhere near as blazing as Serana’s, and even though they moved quickly, Roë caught them briefly straying to the Elder Scroll on Serana’s back. This vampire clearly knew that this wasn’t some ordinary visitor, not by far. “Your... bodyguard?”

Serana nodded. Probably the best way to play it, yes.

“... can stay behind for a refreshment.”

“No,” Serana said. “She comes with me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow – ”

“Vingalmo,” a male Nord vampire called out, stepping into the atrium. His voice carried more than a hint of hostility. “Stop badgering our guest.”

Y’ffre’s frock, how many times were these vampires going to interrupt each other?

The Nord vampire strode forward, as imperiously as the Altmer had before him. His face was fuller, still carrying the square-jawed robustness of the Nords, and his brown beard was rich and well-trimmed. “I will take you to see Lord Harkon, and your bodyguard is welcome to join.” His eyes, too, strayed to the Elder Scroll too often to be a coincidence.

“Orthjolf, cease your meddling,” the Altmer insisted. “Must we have these quarrels every time? And even in front of a guest this time?” The younger vampire girl meanwhile, stood behind them with her arms crossed, furious at being brushed aside, while a female vampire, older from the looks of her, stood up and hurried to the back of the atrium.

“When I see you treating guests poorly, I have no choice but to intervene,” the bearded vampire said. “You do not serve our Lord by being inconsiderate to our fellows.”

“What are you talking about,” the other vampire bumbled in indignation. “We never allow retinue to have an audience with Lord Harkon. Proper conduct specifies that – ”

“Please ignore Vingalmo here,” the Nord vampire smiled at Serana. “He acts with our Lord’s best interests at heart, but he relies overmuch on rules and regulations. Of course your retainer is welcome to join. Perhaps we can first offer you – ”

“Orthjolf, that’s enough! I _will not_ suffer this impudence from you. Or must I remind you that – ”

The hearty laughter that echoed through the main hall made both vampires instantly cease their bickering. “Orthjolf and Vingalmo, always arguing over how to serve me best. Please, my loyal advisors, let me take a look at our mystery guest.”

The two vampires immediately lowered their heads and retreated, to make way for a female vampire and the one she’d fetched: a vampire, dressed in fine regalia, his dark brown hair combed neatly back, and a carefully trimmed goatee framing his noble lips. When he saw Serana, he stopped short, looking surprised, but not struck by lightning. As if her arrival was unexpected, but certainly not earth-shattering.

She greeted him with a curt, “Father.”

The eyes of all vampires in the hall went wide.

The Vampire Lord held out his arms, but showed no intention to hold her. “My beautiful daughter returns. It’s been so long since I’ve laid eyes on you, my child. Your return is most fortuitous. And I see you still have my Elder Scroll?”

 _Elder Scroll?_ Had Roë misheard it? Apparently not, since all the eyes went even wider. The thing Serana had on her back was an Elder Scroll, a daedric artefact said to reveal all of the past, future and present. They were things of legend, powerful beyond measure. No wonder the vampires had eyed it so greedily.

“I return after so many years,” Serana said, sadness in her voice, “And this is the first thing you ask me?” She sighed, looking upset but trying not to show it. “But yes, I still have your Elder Scroll. Here it is.”

Harkon took the scroll, holding it with eyes full of triumph. “If only your traitor mother was here to see this moment.”

This only served to make Serana look even more heartbroken. Roë felt for her, almost as much as she felt for herself.

“And who is this stranger you have brought here before me?” the Vampire Lord asked, taking his eyes off the Scroll and setting them on Roë. “One of us, I see, but... also not.”

Serana actually seemed happy to introduce her and change the subject. “This is Roë, father. She freed me from the seal. Without her, I’d still be there, in that sarcophagus.”

Harkon ignored Serana’s reproach and smiled at her. He was handsome and charismatic, almost impossibly so, and Roë could not help but feel awed in his presence. “Roë, then. I thank you from the bottom of my heart to return my daughter to me, as the Lord of this castle,” his eyes briefly went to Serana’s sad face, and he added, “And as a father, for I have missed her dearly.”

“It uh... happened by accident, more or less, Lord Harkon.” She hoped she hadn’t said anything wrong, but a brief glance at Serana showed she hadn’t.

“Accident or no,” the Vampire Lord said with a grin, “You returned her to me, and for that I am grateful. So grateful, that I wish to make you a generous, but well-deserved offer.”

“There’s no need for – ”

“Surely, there is,” he interrupted her gently. “I see you have the gift, like us,” funny he called it a gift, because so far it was anything but that, “but it has been given by one who was inferior.” He cocked his head, inspecting her. “Unworthy. We can’t have that.”

“I’m... afraid I don’t understand, Lord Harkon.”

He smiled. “I will explain. Come, let us speak in private, you and my daughter.”

Serana nodded at her and they followed Lord Harkon to his private audience chamber. Behind them, they heard Orthjolf and Vingalmo hissing at the female vampire, “Modhna, you fool! Why did you bring our Lord here? This was a task for one of us, not you!”

“I care not for politics,” the female vampire simply replied. “I serve the Lord of the castle.”

They went up the stairs in the back of the great hall, leading to a balcony overlooking the banquet. From there, they went straight on, through a large door, where a massive stone throne stood at the top of a low staircase, flanked by pillar galleries that made pointed arches. A stone fountain, spewing red, stood in the middle and high stained glass windows let in a little bit of light.

Harkon sat on the stone throne and said to Roë, “What you are now, child, is not what you could be. You were infected with vampirism. It was passed to you like a sickness. By a mongrel, a weak and feeble-blooded creature, and so much potential of your blood is lost. Have you been a vampire long?”

“No,” Roë replied, “Lord Harkon. Only a few days.” She felt a wave of sadness wash over her when she remembered that she’d been alive, a few days of eternity ago.

Harkon turned to Serana. “Has she seen herself in a mirror yet?”

“No, father,” Serana replied quietly. “I... didn’t think she was ready.”

It was the first time Roë had thought about it. Like these vampires, she too would have changed. Her cheeks would have sunk, her skin stretched tight over her skull. Dark rings would have formed around her eyes, and the eyes themselves... they would be like the wild vampires she’d fought in Dimhollow Cavern. Bloodshot, reflecting the light in eerie red. Not these burning embers of terrible beauty like Serana and her father had. His were even more blazing, the power that radiated from them was enormous.

“I don’t... need a mirror to know I’m not like I was when I was alive... and nothing like you either,” Roë said, looking at the ground.

“It doesn’t need to be this way, child,” the Vampire Lord said gently. “This is why I offer to share my gift with you. The gift only I have, not even Serana. That of the Vampire Lord.”

She had to ask. “If I were to refuse, what would happen then?”

He shrugged. “That would mean you are my enemy. I would let you leave with your life out of gratitude for returning Serana, but only once. Next time we met, I would extinguish you like the mongrel you are.”

Roë shot a look at Serana, who gave a neutral look in reply. Did she want this? She didn’t know. But... what did she have to lose? She was already damned, better not to be damned and a mongrel. She didn’t have to think long. “I accept, I suppose. Not like this can get any worse.”

Harkon smiled again, his smile captivating, so much that it somehow made Roë feel better to be its recipient. “It will be easier as time goes on. You still cling to your old life, as we all did, but things will change. Now then, let me bestow upon you the gift of the Vampire Lord. Come.”

Feeling empty inside, Roë stepped forward to the throne as Harkon rose.

“Do not be afraid, child,” he said. Before her eyes, the Lord of the castle bared his teeth, and as Roë looked on, his muscles bulged, he increased in size, and his hands elongated into claws, until there was a wet ripping sound and blood flew into Roë’s eyes, with such force that she was blinded and had to stagger back.

When she wiped the blood from her eyes, the Vampire Lord was no longer recognizable. He was a terrifying monster, standing well over two and a half metres tall, floating in the air, even though the wings that had sprouted from his back looked vestigial and in no way capable of allowing him to fly. His skin was gray and leathery, stretched over the powerful-looking muscles, and his face was monstrous, a horned, horrifying visage that looked more like a daedra than a vampire, terrible fangs the length of her middle finger set into its mouth. His clothes had been torn away by the transformation, lying in shreds beneath his feet, leaving only a red loincloth.

As Roë looked on, paralyzed, the creature of glorious terror extended a clawed hand at her, took her by the shoulder, pulled her close, and drove its fangs into her throat. She felt her tendons tear as the teeth dug in, and a blast of power rushed through her, so strong her muscles went taut and she let out a long, wheezing cry. Her eyes were wide open, but she was utterly blind, and though the pain was incredible, it was completely smothered by the blasts of power pumping through her.

Then, ripping her neck muscles even further, the fangs tore away and the claws let go, leaving her to fall on her behind, and from there, onto her back, and she fell into darkness. 


	26. Falnas: Scoundrel's Folly

**FALNAS**

**Scoundrel’s Folly**

**City of Riften**

 

“Falnas!” Brynjolf called out, his arms wide open. “I wish I’d been there to see it. That uppity Commander Caius barfing out his lunch on the porch of the Honningbrew meadery. Heard Sabjorn’s doing hard time in Dragonsreach, too.”

“Yes,” Falnas said. “That’s a bit unfortunate, he seemed like a decent enough person.”

“Well, indecent people end up in jail too.”He grinned. “As long as it’s not you and me, I’m good with it.”

Falnas shrugged, taking the mug of ale Brynjolf held out and sitting down at a table. “Hey, we’re the Guild. If we get thrown in jail, we just escape.” The Ragged Flagon seemed to be more populated. Faces Falnas hadn’t yet seen walked among the flickering torches, and it seemed the infrastructure had improved too. More beds, more furniture, and even a modest archery range.

Brynjolf had noticed him looking around, and his grin widened. “This is thanks to you, for a good part. The work we’re doing for Maven isn’t the safest, or the most grandiose, but with her connections, we’re getting more, and better contracts. It’s been a while since Mercer’s been able to divert some funds into expansion again.”

“So I see,” Falnas said. “New recruits, more comfort. Not bad.”

“More than that, actually,” Brynjolf said. “More inroads into new territory, places that we lost our foothold in years ago. You’ve been keeping Maven happy, and with Vex, Sapphire and me expanding our presence through the contacts Maven gives us, the Guild is finally out of recession.”

Falnas sipped his ale. He wasn’t a fan, but gift horse and all that. “So this whole Maven thing is doing the Guild good?”

Brynjolf leaned in, and after a furtive glance, he confided, “Look, I know we shouldn’t consider this to be a free lunch. But as long as Maven keeps backing the Guild, we’re booming. Even if this leads to big trouble somewhere down the line, and I’m sure it will, there’s no way anyone will convince Mercer to sever ties with Maven.”

“I may be the new kid,” Falnas said, “but I’d hate to see this all go to Oblivion because our boss doesn’t know when to quit.”

“So far,” Brynjolf said, still keeping his voice down, “there’s no immediate sign of things going down the crapper, so no reason to worry yet.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Falnas told him. “What I saw when I went to report to Maven,” the very mention of the fact made the corners of his mouth pull down, “was pretty disconcerting.”

Brynjolf frowned. “What do you mean?” But then his eyes went past Falnas and he said, “Tell me later, here comes Delvin.” He raised his voice. “Mallory, you old thug, any news from Mercer?”

The man with the shaven head and sharp face gave Falnas a pat on the shoulder. “Good work on ‘onningbrew, mate. And yeah, there’s news, as it happens. We’re wanted with Mercer, all three of us.”

“Lead on,” Brynjolf said as they rose from their chairs. “Still think the Guild’s cursed?”

“Mate,” Delvin said, “It ain’t that crazy an idea. Look at everything that’s happened lately.”

Brynjolf blew. “That’s just crazy Maven.”

“No mate,” Delvin said, shaking his head as he walked. “Not that I’m talkin’ about. All this opposition, that ain’t Maven. Somethin’ else is goin’ on, an’ I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Guild bein’ cursed.”

Tonilia gave Falnas a mysterious smile when they passed her, while Vex’ look was still one of unmitigated hostility. Falnas began to get convinced she was just angry at everyone, all the time.

“Bout time you showed up,” Mercer grunted in his rough, unpleasant voice. “You’ll get paid for Honningbrew later. For now, shut up and listen to Delvin.” He gave the bald man a nod.

“Been lookin’ at that symbol you brought ‘ome,” Mallory said. “It’s familiar, but too early to tell. More importantly though, the manifests you brought back reveal an interestin’ little detail.”

“To us?” Brynjolf asked, “Or to Maven?”

“Listen here, Brynjolf,” Mercer immediately cut in, “Maven is still our number one client, and as long as she keeps paying, we keep doing right by her. That clear?”

“Absolutely,” Brynjolf said, looking unperturbed. “Was just asking.”

“So yeah,” Mallory went on, “I found a connection in the documents. All the deals, for both breweries, were handled, with some detours, by an Argonian called Gulum-Ei. Based in Solitude.”

“Isn’t he an old Guild contact?” Brynjolf asked.

“Yeah,” Mallory answered. “Piss poor one at that. Late payments, shoddy leads. He’s the only man we’ve got in the East Empire Company though.”

“So your next job, new guy,” Mercer ordered, looking at Falnas, “is to get to Solitude where this Gulum-Ei shit-for-brains works, and get the truth out of him. Beat it out of his scaly hide if you have to.”

Falnas shrugged and nodded. “Like dust from a mat.”

“Good. East Empire Company in Solitude. Grab a bite to eat and go. It’s important,” Mercer stressed. Seemed Maven had him on a tight leash.

“Sure. Got my pay for Honningbrew?”

Mercer gave a lopsided grin and plonked a bag of septims on the counter. “Now get. And remember, beat him all you want, but _no_ killing. We need him in the East Empire Company. Pass by Tonilia for a little bit extra before you leave. Brynjolf, I’ve got something to do for you as well.”

Falnas knew better than to stay and listen, so he went to his bunk, put on fresh clothes, and got ready to head out. Before he could leave, though, a familiar face showed up, though it didn’t wear its familiar dismissive scowl.

“Hello, Sapphire. Everything alright?”

“M-hm. Just came to say, um...” she trailed off, her eyes going to her finger, which was following one of the seams in the wall.

“Yes?”

She let out a short sigh, as if it did cost her a small amount of effort to get the words past her lips. “Seems I was wrong about you. So far, you’ve proven a more than a worthy addition to the Guild.” Another short sigh. “So yeah. I was wrong, and uh, I guess... well, it’s not really an apology, but... just... well. You know.”

Falnas smiled at her, sitting on his bed and pulling his boots on. “No need for apologies, I’m just glad you think better of me now.”

“I do. Because of all the stuff you did for Maven, we’re going back to being the Guild we once used to be. Anyway, um,” she cleared her throat, remembering herself, “Just wanted to say good job. Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t, but I appreciate it.”

“Good. Got another job?”

“Yep.”

She nodded, “I’ll let you get to it.”

And get to it he did, packing his stuff, passing by Tonilia, who gave him a spanking new set of leather armour, and then he left, not even stopping to catch a few winks, heading straight out through the cemetery and out of Riften. From there, he headed north to Solitude. Passing Whiterun, he came across a brutally eviscerated carcass of a doe, the remains torn apart, entrails in all directions. Paw prints surrounded the cadaver. Must have been a pretty big wolf, judging from the prints. The doe wasn’t long dead, so he cut off a slab from the hind legs and roasted it over a campfire that night.

He awoke at the break of dawn, the doe meat sitting well in his stomach, and went on, stopping by the occasional farm or inn for a meal and a drink. It wasn’t long until Solitude came into view. The weather was colder in these parts of Skyrim, and the wind bit right through his cloak.

As he approached the gates, he thought to himself it was high time he bought himself a horse.

It was getting late, and where better to ask around for this East Empire Company than in the local inn? The Winking Skeever was its name, and it was run by an imperial with a horseshoe moustache, called Corpulus. The man, not the moustache. When he came in, the owner was in the middle of a joke, telling the patrons, “I think the Khajiit should go...” he paused for effect, “... Elsweyr.”

The patrons roared with laughter at the old pun, but Falnas supposed it was the alcohol being funnier than the actual joke. He found himself grinning at the mirth in spite of himself. He sat down at the bar and ordered a sujamma, which the bartender thankfully had under the counter. Not all taverns had sujamma, and the mead drunk in these parts of Skyrim wasn’t Falnas’ favourite beverage.

“Hey friend,” he asked the bartender while he paid for his drink, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone by the name of Gulum-Ei, would you?”

“That wastrel?” the innkeeper spat. “He’s right there, back of the inn. If you’ve got business with him, remind him to pay his tab while you’re at it.”

This was him alright. “Appreciate it.”

Taking a sip, Falnas observed the Argonian at the back. He sat drinking wine and reading a note, clearly in thought. The note had to be important, or he wouldn’t be staring at it like this. And since Falnas didn’t believe in coincidences, this probably had to do with the whole Guild business.

“Gulum-Ei?” Falnas said, coming to stand at his table.

“Who wants to know?” the Argonian asked gruffly. Looking up, he added, “Nevermind. I know a Guild thug when I see one. What in Oblivion do you want, crony?” He hastily crumpled the note and stuffed it in his pocket.

Falnas sat down despite the lack of an invite. “What do Guild cronies always want, Gulum-Ei? Information, of course.”

“Beat it, I don’t have any to give you.” He looked away. “We’re done here.”

“No we’re not,” Falnas said. “Look here, you’ve been trouble for the Guild lately. You don’t think we’ll just leave it at that, do you? We know you’ve been buying up breweries at the behest of an unknown investor. Someone who works against the Guild.” He leaned in. “Now, we’re prepared to overlook your part in dicking the Guild over. Just give us the name of the buyer and we’ll forget you were a sabotaging little shit.”

“Or what,” the lizard defied him, “you’ll kill me? Doesn’t Mercer teach you flunkies anything? Kill me and you lose your only contact with the Company. That’s terrible business even for you.”

“I’m not talking about killing,” Falnas said. “You know we’re not into that. And you also know we have other ways of making your life miserable, while still keeping you as a contact. Except the terms won’t be as bilateral as they are now.”

“If word gets out,” the Argonian snapped, “that I betrayed the investor, no one will trust me anymore. And as you know, trust is essential in my business. So if I tell you what you want, I’ll be more ruined than the Guild could ever make me. No, I’ll just keep right on pissing you off.”

Falnas chuckled. “But Gulum-Ei, you’re not thinking this through. After all, I could easily make sure that word gets out, no matter if you actually cooperated or not.”

The Argonian fixed him with an angry stare.

“All I need to do,” Falnas went on, “is let it drop here and there that we talked. People see us sitting in the inn right now. Or maybe I’ll just stand up and say, as loud as I can, ‘thank you for helping the Guild, Gulum-Ei’, and it’s books-closed for you.”

Gulum-Ei shook his head in disgust. “It’s good to see that Mercer is keeping the Guild on an honourable course.”

“No honour among thieves, Gulum-Ei.” Falnas drew back his upper lip to show he was serious, “Now _talk_.”

“Fine,” the Argonian conceded. “I don’t know much though.”

Falnas reverted to his friendly, chummy self. “Anything can help, Gulum-Ei.”

“Had I known this deal would bring me so much trouble,” the lizard sighed, “I never would have accepted the gold.”

“Like I said, we’ll forget all about it if you just point us in the right direction.”

“Look, all I know is that I was approached by some ashface who wanted me to make some gold deposits in her name. To buy breweries.”

“Got a name?”

“No,” the Argonian said, looking pleased not to know. “But she was an angry type. Hated Mercer Frey’s guts in particular.”

“Interesting that she knew the name,” Falnas pointed out. “You must have picked up on that too.”

“What do you want me to say?” the Argonian bit at him. “It was business. A lot of gold. You Guild drones of all people should be able to understand that.”

“I’m not here to understand,” Falnas said curtly. “What else?”

“That’s all I know. She didn’t tell me her plans or anything. Just told me to buy a few deeds.”

“I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything.”

The Argonian shrugged, finished his wine, and rose. “Have as many feelings as you like, it doesn’t change that I don’t have anything more to tell you. We’re through here.” With that, he marched to the bar, dumped a few septims on the counter, and left.

Falnas was determined to do more than just have a feeling. His sujamma already paid for, he waited for half a minute, then made for the exit, pushing between the patrons, enduring the pipe-smoke and the smell of old ale and sweat. The bard had finished her song about a man with red hair who lost his head, and Falnas closed the door behind him, drowning out the clapping of the patrons. He saw Gulum-Ei round a corner, going right on the cobblestoned streets, in the direction of the riverbank. Probably where the East Empire Company had their warehouses. If the Argonian made it there, Falnas realized, he’d be almost impossible to keep track of. He’d have to wait for his opportunity.

He sneaked after his quarry, one with the shadows thanks to the new Guild armour he’d received from Tonilia. The leather was enchanted to blend in with its surroundings, and it made him even more stealthy. He was almost impossible to see now, as long as he stuck to the shadows and moved quietly.

He followed the Argonian through the dark streets, the few torches casting their dancing light on the humid cobblestones. This was going well, the Argonian wasn’t too suspicious, only casting the occasional glance behind him, but he still hadn’t seen a moment to spring into action. It had to be soon.

He heard the noise the same time the Argonian did, and they both froze. Footsteps, coming closer, from behind them. Falnas ducked behind a water barrel just in time before Gulum-Ei looked over his shoulder.

Two shapes came from the alley behind them, sprinting past. Falnas didn’t get a good look at them, but he was pretty certain it was a Bosmer and an Orsimer, both with weapons drawn. The Bosmer shouted at the Orc, panting, “They would if they were sober!”

Then they ran past, disappearing in the direction of the town square in front of the Blue Palace. Whatever they’d been here for, it hadn’t been Falnas or Gulum-Ei.

Faintly, Falnas could hear sounds of fighting coming from the direction of the Palace. Whatever it was, it wasn’t his business, and Gulum-Ei seemed to agree, walking on, to the narrow streets that veined the downward slope of the city as it descended to the waterfront, the wooden houses becoming smaller and in worse repair the lower the slope became. This was where the fishermen and labourers lived, and it was a far cry from the stone buildings of the upper city.

Between Falnas and Gulum-Ei, a shape zipped past, from one alley into another, so fast Falnas thought it was his imagination. But then the shape emerged from another alley again, this time right behind Gulum-Ei. It looked like a man, wearing a cloak.

Falnas doubted that this man, or thing, had any good intentions with the Argonian.

He kneeled down and watched as Gulum-Ei noticed the other person stalking him.

“What... what do you want?” the lizard stammered, fully aw           are of how alone, vulnerable and helpless he was, in these dark alleys where people never opened their shutters during the night, no matter how loudly one cried out.

“What else, cold-blood,” the other person said, in a sibilant and hungry voice. “than the life flowing through your veins?”

It wanted his blood? Falnas’ breath stopped when he realized what this was. This wasn’t a mugger or even a murderer. This was something else entirely, though for Gulum-Ei, the result would be as good as murder if Falnas didn’t intervene. It seemed the old wives’ tales were true after all.

Falnas had to intervene. The orders were clear: Gulum-Ei must not die. Even if that meant taking on this nightstalker, it had to be done.

It had to be now.

Swallowing despite his dry throat, Falnas leapt from his hiding place and shouted, “Look out, Gulum-Ei! Vampire!”

The Argonian stood flat-footed as the creature lunged for him, its claws grabbing him by the horns and pulling him nearer, but before the fangs could sink in, Falnas threw his weight against the bloodsucker, so hard it took all three of them to the ground.

As they rolled, Falnas felt a fist strike him hard in the side, and the other hand lifted him by his collar with superhuman strength, hurling him to the cobblestones, his back smacking into them. Falnas tried to get to his feet, but a hard kick sent him flying again, and he crashed into a road sign, so hard the post broke in two.

The creature stood over him, its eyes reflecting the light with a faint red sheen, and it hissed, “So much better than the reptile. Come, let me feed on you!”

It reached for Falnas, but he managed to kick upward and catch the thing in the jaw. It was only a brief respite however, as the creature lunged again, its claws hooking around Falnas’ wrists. It dragged him closer despite Falnas’ struggles, and bared its fangs to sink them into his throat.

Falnas kicked and thrashed, but the monster was impossibly strong, and it pulled him closer, slowly but surely, despite his frantic struggling.

He didn’t even feel it when his dagger was pulled from its sheath, but he did feel the claws letting go as the creature shrieked from the stabs Gulum-Ei was raining down on it, sticking it in the upper back and the back of the neck.

It whirled around and swung its fist against the lizard’s face, so hard the Argonian was smacked against the wooden wall of a fisherman’s house.

The vampire turned back to Falnas, missing its lunge as Falnas flexed back. It clawed at him again, but Falnas dodged the swipe for the second time, though his feet slipped on the humid cobblestones, out from under him, and he went down again.

“Now you die,” the thing screeched, but Falnas’ reaching hand settled on a long, wooden object, and he grabbed hold of it.

The vampire threw itself on Falnas, impaling itself on the sharp end of the broken signpost.

Its dead mask of a face perplexed, the vampire gurgled, a thin line of sticky black blood issuing from the corner of its mouth. Its hands clawed the air a few times, but then they hung limp as the creature slowly slid down the stake it was transfixed on, before coming to rest inches from Falnas’ face.

“That got him,” Falnas grunted, throwing the disgusting thing off him. Gulum-Ei lived, and seemed more or less hale, apart from what was probably a case of scrambled brain. “You alright?”

The Argonian’s head slowly went up and down. “That was a...”

“Vampire, yes,” Falnas said, laboriously getting back to his feet. He hurt all over from the falls he’d done. “Dead now. I hope.” He gave the transfixed monster a hard kick, but nothing happened.

“You saved my scales just now,” Gulum-Ei breathed. “There’s no telling what that thing would have done if you hadn’t...”

“It would have drained you dry, I wager,” Falnas said, still looking at the corpse. The skin was stretched tight over its skull, and terrible fangs stood in its open mouth. This was definitely one of the vampires people told about by the campfire. Shit, these things were real.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Gulum-Ei breathed. “I mean it. I guess I owe you one.”

“You sure do,” Falnas said, rubbing his throbbing ribs.

“Karliah.”

“What?”

“Karliah. That was her name. The ashface... well, Dunmer... who wanted me to buy those deeds. I did some digging, and turns out she murdered the last Guildmaster. And now she’s got her sights set on Mercer Frey.”

That was worrying news indeed. “So like, an assassin?”

“Don’t think so,” Gulum-Ei said. “But she wants him dead, I’m pretty sure of it. I didn’t know when I accepted the deal. Just so you know.”

“Where can we find her?”

“I don’t know where she is now, but she mentioned she’d be... what did she say...” The Argonian thought for a moment. “Right. ‘Where the end began’. No idea what she meant though.”

“Appreciate it, Gulum-Ei. Now head home, or somewhere safe. I’ve got a feeling this wasn’t the only one.”

“I think that’s best, yes,” Gulum-Ei said, looking around, down the dark alleys. “I’ll fill out the damn ledger tomorrow.”

“Good. One more thing?” Falnas asked, determined to milk this to the fullest.

“What?”

“You’re back on the Guild payroll from now on. Any job leads, you come to us. Our people need things they need fencing, they come to you. We’ll pay you for good leads, but you work exclusively for us, so we can get a foothold in Solitude again. That work for you?”

He nodded. “It works. Just don’t mention this to Maven. Please.”

“Don’t worry,” Falnas said, “I wouldn’t even let Maven know if the world ended tomorrow.”


	27. Keljarn: Broken Circle

**Keljarn**

**Broken Circle**

**The Skyforge**

“Gods be praised,” was all the old smith said as the flames on the pyres rose higher and higher, consuming Njada, Ria and the Harbinger of the Companions. No one else spoke. A few citizens of Whiterun had come to pay their respects, but the events had been kept mostly quiet, so not too many had shown up. Most were people Keljarn didn’t know, but the other Companions had greeted them with respect, so Keljarn figured they were the more decent people of Whiterun. Even Jarl Balgruuf had come, Keljarn had noticed when the two brothers addressed him. The only ones he did know were Adriana Avenicci and Ulfberth War-bear, the couple who ran the smithy. Most people had ignored Keljarn, not out of ill will, but simply because they didn’t know who he was, but Adriana and Ulfberth had given their condolences to everyone, including Keljarn, with Adriana Avenicci taking his hand in both of his, and telling him, “This doesn’t have to be the end. I know the Companions can overcome this tragedy.”

“We will,” Keljarn had only said.

Aela had stood next to him the entire time, but she hadn’t spoken to him, and so he hadn’t said anything to her either. She doubtless needed to be left alone now. Yet, there was one thing he had to say to her. He knew she wanted to hear it, but he also knew it shouldn’t be right now.

“Go now, brave Companions,” Heimskr preached, his hands to the sky. “Let the gates of Sovngarde open before you. Embrace the powerful Talos.”

Even Farkas and Vilkas stood mute.

Njada, Ria and Kodlak were now nothing more than charred skeletons. Keljarn felt ashamed for it, but he really, genuinely cared only about Ria. It was sad about Njada and Kodlak, he supposed, but... he just couldn’t care as much as he did for the dutiful and kind young fighter who had been impaled to the floor by something or someone with enormous force, crushing her ribs and the lungs beneath, drowning her in her own blood. He felt guilty for only thinking about her, but he hadn’t really known Kodlak well, and Njada... well, Njada hadn’t made it easy for anyone to care. Still, she’d died in her undergarments, her throat half ripped out, all alone except for her killer, like Ria. No one deserved to die all alone, dishonourably murdered by a cowardly rat.

He would find this rat, and make him pay. And the entire Silver Hand with him. But he couldn’t do it as he was now.

“Aela,” he said to the woman next to him. She didn’t respond but he knew she listened. “I’ve made up my mind. I want to join the Circle.”

Aela said nothing, just kept staring at the pyre, but Keljarn needed no words to know she had expected nothing else.

Everyone had gone, and it was only the four Companions left as the evening grew dark, with Heimskr and Eorlund Gray-Mane, waiting for the pyres to burn out so Heimskr could gather the ashes and consecrate them, before the urns were presented to the remaining Companions to be given a place with the others.

“Forgive us, Njada and Ria,” Aela finally said hoarsely. “We are to blame. We weren’t careful enough. You were our future, the new Companions. And because of us, you were taken before you could realize the potential we know you had in you. Njada, Ria, congratulations, you are now Companions of Jorrvaskr, with all the honour and responsibility it entails.”

Keljarn supposed promoting the two fallen apprentices posthumously was only just, and the least they could do.

The two brothers said, simultaneously, “Hail the new Companions.” Keljarn repeated after them.

“It’s done,” Vilkas told the others. “Njada, Ria and Kodlak are drinking ale with Skjor and all the Companions, at Talos’ side.”

“Let us not mourn them,” Farkas took over, “but rejoice in their lives and their eternal glory in Sovngarde.”

The words rang hollow. All of them knew Sovngarde was the reward of only those who had died bravely in battle, or who had lived a lifetime of the same. Not for apprentices who were murdered like cattle. Kodlak had fought for his life, but Ria and especially Njada had been murdered, not died in combat. They all knew promising them Sovngarde was a lie. It made Keljarn seethe in anger. This murdering coward hadn’t just taken three members from them, but he had also certainly denied two the honour of falling in combat, and denied the remaining Companions their joy at knowing they were now in Sovngarde.

“I’m ready,” he told the three Companions. “I want to become a member of the Circle.”

“So it shall be done,” Vilkas said. “The Silver Hand will know pain.”

“Come,” Aela said. “Let us return to Jorrvaskr, and leave Heimskr to his work.”

In silence, they descended the stairs to the mead hall, but they did not enter. All four silently agreed that Keljarn’s initiation could not wait. Once more they gathered around the fountain in the darkness of the Underforge.

“There is no way back,” Aela said to Keljarn. “You must be completely aware of that before you commit to this. Once you set foot on this path, you are in the Circle until you walk through the gates of Sovngarde.”

“I’m aware,” Keljarn said with a nod, “and it doesn’t change my feelings. I have to do this. Not just for myself, but for the Companions. For our fallen.” He paused. “I would help you in rebuilding the Companions, as part of the new Circle. If you would have me.”

“Then step forward, Keljarn, and drink from the font.”

Keljarn’s heart beat hard in his chest, but he did not hesitate. Taking a handful of the red liquid in the basin, he brought it to his mouth and drank, the warm, sticky taste of metal in his mouth. Though the texture and taste almost made him dry-heave, he swallowed it, grimacing as it slid down his throat.

The last thing he saw before he was torn apart was the spare clothes Farkas had draped over his arm.

Then the changed. The pain was enormous, and the blood pressure in his skull made him feel as if his brain was about to burst. His bones cracked and snapped into their new form, and the tissues in his muscles tore and wrenched as they followed the bones in the change. There was excruciating pain in his lower jaw and nose and Keljarn screamed from the agony, but what came out wasn’t a human scream, but a monstrous, deafening roar.

Then he felt his legs carry him off. The body he now inhabited did as it wanted, guided by a feral instinct that Keljarn found both terrifying and comforting. He knew he could let it do as it pleased, that something ancient and dormant had taken over, channelling his most primitive and natural instincts and sending him on this wild, frenzied, liberating nightly run. His body ran while he could only observe, in a blur, how his new form first left the city, and then crossed the countryside, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on all fours. He smelled and tasted the explosion of blood as his form took down a doe and tore it apart, wolfing down the animal’s heart and leaving the rest as a mess of blood, fur and bones.

On his run went, his legs sending him speeding so far he lost all sense of distance. He saw a boar come closer and felt his muzzle clamping down on its throat, shaking it so hard the animal’s neck snapped. Another jerk and the boar’s throat ripped open, the rich blood spurting into his mouth, dripping down his chest.

And he felt, for the second time, how natural it was for these creatures to die, how they, without anger or protest, humbly and willingly played their role in the great cycle, the cycle which now recognized him as its own, and despite his immense power, he was no more than the animals he had slaughtered – there was none in this cycle who was more important, or more useful than the other. All were equal, all played their parts, and his was the same as theirs, and Keljarn _understood_. He was them, and they were him. All of them were One. They were all of them the same creature. All of them Hircine, all of them Nature.

And those who opposed Nature would see it tear them asunder.


	28. Siari: Whispers in the Dark

  **SIARI**

**Whispers in the Dark**

**Sanctuary**

 

“Oh. You’re back,” Babette said to Siari without much enthusiasm when she let the stone door fall into place.

Siari gave her a raised eyebrow. Why the jaded greeting?

“Oh, it’s not because of you.” She rolled her eyes. “Astrid and Cicero have been acting snippy towards each other the last few days. Ever since you left in fact.”

She called him Cicero, not ‘the jester’ or something of the like. Siari frowned. Now why would they be at odds? Weren’t they Brother and Sister?

“Don’t look at me, I don’t know.”

Sure she did.

“Alright, I do know,” she admitted, apparently slightly eager to share. “It’s this whole Night Mother thing. Astrid still won’t accept that she doesn’t run the place anymore. Cicero looks and acts like a fool, but he _is_ the Night Mother’s Keeper, and until she selects a Listener, Cicero’s pretty much entitled to free run of the place. And she doesn’t like it.”

Siari cocked her head.

“Well, because she thinks he’s undermining her authority. He’s been talking to people. Telling them about the Night Mother, and that she, as the representative of Sithis, is the only one Brotherhood members should take orders from, not some,” she quickly looked around and then quietly said, “bossy homemaker, as he calls her.”

Siari had to chuckle at the term. Still, it wasn’t good news. She’d found a family now and she didn’t want tensions or arguments.

“Yeah. I know,” Babette said. “I don’t like it much either.”

“Hey. Mutton chop,” Arnbjorn interrupted them. “See you’ve made it back without losing an eye. Go see Astrid, she wants to talk to you.”

Siari nodded at the rude, bare-footed muscleman, then turned back to Babette.

“ _Now_ , cutlet.”

Babette sighed and rolled her eyes, “Arnbjorn, must you really address everyone as food? The novelty’s worn off, you know.”

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, quail roast. Didn’t you have a job to do?”

Another angry sigh. “Alright, alright. Sheesh, I don’t care if the Night Mother finds a Listener or just rolls out of here, but this arguing better be over soon.” With that, she stomped to the exit, probably to fulfil her contract.

“Astrid. Now.”

Siari gave him an annoyed face. Damn brute should get off her back already. He’d never been the most pleasant guy around, but it seemed that while she’d been gone, his disposition had become that much worse.

She walked past him while he gave her what he doubtless thought was a withering, cross-armed stare.

Festus Krex attempted to make his greeting cheerful when she passed him, but he only succeeded in an obviously fake-cheery, “Welcome back, dear. Good to see you’re alright.”

She gave him a smile in return. Had to give him one for trying.

“Hello Siari,” Astrid said when she came in. She sat behind a desk, looking up when the door opened. She had dark rings around her eyes and the braid in her hair wasn’t as orderly as it always was. “Contract went off without a hitch?”

Siari stood in the doorway, crossed her arms and glared.

“What?”

She took a quill from the desk and wrote on a blank piece of parchment, “WEREWOLF.”

Astrid read the paper with a bored face. “Yes. I know. That’s why I gave you that silver knife. Enchanted against shapeshifters.” She made an attempt at a joke, “Don’t tell Arnbjorn.”

“NEXT TIME TELL ME,” she wrote on the parchment.

“You’re right,” Astrid said, spreading her hands in apology. “I should have told you. I just didn’t think it was important.”

She didn’t think Siari’d find out, more like.

“Hey, don’t give me that look. You made it back in one piece, so that meant you were clearly good for the job. But you’re right, I’ll be more forthcoming with information next time.”

It seemed to Siari that the Astrid of a few days ago would never have apologized and promised to do better in the future.

“Anyway, I have something for you to do. Close the door.”

Siari did as she was told, then sat down at the desk, opposite her.

“First,” Astrid said with a weary smile, “you’re going to get something to eat, and catch some sleep. You must be dead tired.”

Siari gave a lopsided shrug. It wasn’t that bad.

“Well, you’re still resting and that’s an order.” She still smiled as she said it, but hadn’t she said before that she didn’t give orders? That she wasn’t The Boss?

“After that, I need you to investigate a little something for me.”

Investigate? That wasn’t really her specialty.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing brain-racking.” She leaned forward, and said quietly, “This Cicero character...” Siari should have known it’d be about that, “... he worries me. I have a feeling he’s turning people against me. More than that, I think he’s planning to... I don’t know what, but definitely something that would be very bad for this chapter. That demented fool is up to something.”

Now why did she have that idea?

“Well, because I see him talking to people in this chapter, and the conversation always falls silent when I enter. And even more alarming, sometimes, when he claims he’s taking care of the Night Mother, I hear him talking. And the last time I heard it, I was certain all of us were either out on jobs, or having dinner.”

That _was_ strange. Maybe the madcap simply talked to himself? Siari gave Astrid a questioning look while pointing at herself and then her ear.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. Cicero’s been talking to everyone here except you, so you’re the only one I can count on to give me truthful information. Well, except Arnbjorn but I don’t see him pulling off anything subtle. So it’s just you.”

Paranoia wasn’t healthy for a family.

Astrid picked up on her expression and defended herself, “Hey look, being suspicious is what keeps you alive in this life. We’re all a tight-knit family, but it wouldn’t be the first time an entire chapter was wiped out by an outsider. Just look at what happened in Cheydinhal.”

Siari didn’t like all this one bit. And the shrine was off-limits. The jester had been clear about that. If he caught anyone there, bad things would happen.

“Siari,” Astrid said, laying her hand on top of Siari’s. “I need you to trust me for now. I need to know you’re with me in this. Our family’s at stake.”

Fine, fine. If there was a danger of losing her family, she’d do as Astrid said. It felt as if it could lead to a cartload of trouble, but Astrid asked for her trust, so giving it to her would be best in the long run.

“Thank you for doing this for me, Siari,” Astrid said, sounding immensely weary. This must be taking a toll on her. “Our family will get through this and come out the stronger for it. As soon as Cicero’s certain the Listener isn’t here, he’ll just move on and we can get back to the day-to-day.”

Siari supposed she was right. She wrote on the parchment, “TIME?”

“It’s always around evening. During dinner. He doesn’t know you’re here, so he won’t suspect. Veezara’s cooking tonight. When he makes the dinner call, you stay out of sight and get to the Night Mother’s chamber. Hide somewhere and wait for him. Just listen to what he says, don’t interfere or show yourself.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll save you a plate.”

Siari nodded. Dinner was still a few hours away, so still plenty of time to get some sleep. Siari had a love-hate relationship with sleep. It made her feel refreshed, but there were often the nightmares. They were often about the orphanage. Seemed killing that old harpy hadn’t done anything to diminish them. And when they weren’t about the orphanage, they were from before that.

Avoiding the other people in the chapter, she trudged into the room she shared with Babette and Gabrielle. Both were out on a job, so she had the place to herself.

She stripped, let herself drop into bed and pulled the blankets over her. As she closed her eyes, she drowned out the world and concentrated on the feeling she’d had when she’d taken those three lives, especially the two young ones, reliving the moment. People always said they felt sorry for doing bad things.

“Sorry”. It was a word she heard often, but she didn’t really grasp the meaning of it. She’d tried to understand, but it was a strange concept. It was a kind of feeling people had, or said they had, when they’d done something bad. When they’d hurt someone or made a mistake that had in some way caused someone else pain. Was it fear of retribution? Fear of the law? Of punishment? Because she knew that feeling, she understood that. She understood procedures, understood rules and regulations. She didn’t understand ‘sorry’. She’d been sorry all her life, that was what her mother had told her, but what was it, being sorry? She understood the literal meaning of the word, but the actual feeling? No. She wished she did, but Siari didn’t really know what ‘sorry’ meant.

 

 

“Siari. Dinner time.”

It was Veezara’s voice that woke her.

“Astrid said I should wake you up, hope you don’t mind?”

Siari lifted her weary head off her pillow and shook it feebly. Of course she minded, but better not to tell him that.

She felt groggy and bleary, like the world spun slowly and her eyelids had swollen to twice their size and weight. She slept too long. Half an hour was the most she could sleep during the day. Any more and she’d wake up feeling miserable, like now. She must have been more tired than she thought. The ribs at her back ached from the cupboard she’d crashed into and her tailbone throbbed in pain too. Right, from the painful landing.

“Shall I set a plate for you?”

She flapped her hand, and put the other on the blanket over her belly.

“Oh. Can I brew you some powdered mudcrab chitin tea?”

The good old cure for tummy aches. Siari shook her head and motioned for him to go away, and that she was fine.

“I’ll save some dinner for you in case you’re feeling better later.”

She gave him her sickest-yet-most-thankful smile, then pulled the blankets over her head, letting out a theatrical groan in the process.

She heard Veezara chuckle. “First time I hear your voice. I keep assuming you don’t have one but... well, you obviously do.”

She obviously did, though she couldn’t use it for anything else than inarticulate noises, and even those sounded awful without a tongue. She’d only used it a few times since she’d lost her tongue, and it had always been for groans like these, or the occasional “Wah!” to get someone’s attention.

When she was certain Veezara had left, she hauled herself out of bed and got dressed, back into the smelly leathers. She needed to give them a wash tomorrow, and maybe some wax treatment too.

But for now, she had a secret meeting to eavesdrop on.

Keeping to the shadows, she waited in the hallway until she’d heard everyone go to dinner. Everyone except Cicero and Astrid. She heard them bicker again. “Cicero only does the Night Mother’s bidding, lady Astrid.” The sarcasm when he used her title was unashamedly obvious.

“How can you do her bidding if you don’t know what she says?” Astrid retorted. “Until a Listener has been found, I’ll decide how this family is run.”

“Oh, but lady Astrid,” Cicero sing-songed in his nasal voice. “Surely you know that a chapter cannot be run in an autocratic fashion, by a mere mortal? We all serve the Night Mother and we are all equal under her eyes.”

“We _are_ all equal in this family,” Astrid snapped back, a little too quickly. “I just coordinate and organize. I don’t order anyone around or force them to do things they don’t want.” Siari wasn’t entirely in agreement, she was, after all, caring but authoritative, but she also knew Astrid probably honestly believed she was handling things the right way.

“... she said,” Cicero mocked, “Right after telling Cicero that she would decide how the family must be run.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Astrid half-shouted back, losing her temper. “I’m getting tired of you painting me like some tyrant.”

“Cicero paints nothing but his own face,” the jester laughed. “Now, to the smelly pit Cicero must go, for a need that is all too human, but too tasteless to speak of before dinner.”

“I trust you’ll be joining us after that?” Astrid said.

“Oh, in a moment... Cicero must first sit on the wooden plank and imagine it to be his throne. Then Cicero will take a brief moment to tend to our sweet Mother,” he quickly clarified: “after washing his hands of course. Then he will find himself charmed and humbled by your company at the dinner table.”

“Please,” Astrid said sourly. “Spare me the details.”

Well, seemed like the jester would be taking a moment to drop a decidedly unjesterly log. Good. If there was ever the time to sneak in, this was it.

When Astrid had left for the dining hall and Cicero had gone in the direction of the shit pit, Siari crossed the atrium, under the red light of the stained-glass hand, and darted up the steps to the Night Mother’s chamber. Her mouth went dry and her heart beat harder. If this really was the Night Mother, then she would be in the presence of a terrifying and awesome power.

She quietly pushed open the door and closed it behind her. The room was entirely empty apart from the sarcophagus. It would be difficult to find a place to hide here. Her eyes briefly strayed to the ceiling and the air shaft made in it, but she doubted she’d fit, and she probably wouldn’t even be able to reach it either. Babette, maybe, since her attire was enchanted to give her more jumping power (and Siari presumed pouncing strength as well), but three metres was too high to reach. Even then, she didn’t know how long she’d have to be in there, and the shaft looked narrow enough to induce some serious panic if one had to stay squeezed in there for a few minutes.

She looked around the room but saw nothing, really _nothing_ to hide behind. This was a tricky one. Maybe she’d better leave now and come back when Astrid had found an excuse to keep a box or screen there. Because for now –

“Forgive me, sweet Mother,” Cicero’s voice came singing off-key up the stairs. “Cicero had to take care of a need which he thought was substantial, but which later turned out to be nothing but hot air.”

Ah, damn it! He was coming up already! And there was only one entrance into this room. He’d find her, and at the very least, be very suspicious of what she was doing, and she didn’t think an excuse of ‘I just wanted to say ‘hi’ to the Night Mother’ would work. They had all been expressly forbidden from entering the shrine. This was going to end up all wrong. Cicero would accuse her of defiling the Night Mother, and with such overwhelming evidence, Astrid would have no choice but to agree with her, and she’d be cast out, or even worse, put to death.

Damn, damn, damn! What to do, what to do!

“Cicero will be with you soon, sweet Mother, to sing his praises for you.” He was right behind the door! No, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen! Siari frantically looked around for a place to hide, but the room hadn’t changed.

_click_

Siari whipped her head around and saw that the double doors of the sarcophagus were ajar, though slightly. The lock had just clicked open.

She didn’t have the time to contemplate whether this was a sign or just some dumb coincidence, and she certainly didn’t stop to wonder if what she was about to do would only make things much worse for her if she was caught, she simply whirled around, pulled the sarcophagus open, and looking away at the horror she could only barely perceive in the low light, she slipped inside, closing the doors and hoping Cicero wouldn’t open them. She felt sweat break out on her skin and her stomach cramped painfully. She could use Veezara’s tea right now. She grimaced in the dark at the stupidity of that thought.

“Are we alone, sweet Mother?” she heard the jester’s voice outside the coffin. She tried not to think about what it was she was sharing the small space with, though the smell of embalming fluid and ichor reminded her constantly. She shuddered, realizing she was in there with a mummified corpse.

“Yes, we are,” Cicero went on. “Solitude at last. Everything is going as it should. I’ve spoken to most of them. And they are coming around, I know it. The poisoner, the old wizard, the Argonian... I think the un-child too.” Un-child? What a strange way to call Babette. “The Redguard proves to be more obtuse, but he will change his mind yet, Cicero is certain. Your loyal servant needs only to speak to the mute, but Cicero believes she too will understand your glory.”

‘The mute’. Figured he’d talk about her that way, the little creep. So there were no meetings. Only this madman and his rambling, his babbling to a desiccated corpse.

“The icy one and her dog, however... Cicero fears they are lost in their misguidance. They believe they are doing your will, but they are blind to your true nature. Oh, sweet Mother, will you not show them the way and bring them back to us?”

A silence fell.

“But you will not talk to them, will you, beautiful Mother? Of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and the saying. And what do you do? Nothing.” In hasty reverence, he quickly added, “Not, not that Cicero complains, however! He knows you will speak when the time is right. Ohh, sweet Mother,” he implored, his voice sounding positively pained with longing, “Will you not speak to me?”

Silence fell again, and then the jester quickly apologized, “Forgive me, Mother, I meant that I long for the day when you speak to one of us, the one worthy of your glory, the one worthy of being the Listener. But I have faith. I know you will speak, and I know you will reveal your Listener when it is time, as only you can know. Forgive your devoted servant for being so flawed, glorious Mother.”

 _Poor Cicero_ , a calm, delicate voice spoke gently in Siari’s head. It startled her so much she almost knocked the sarcophagus doors open. _Dear Cicero._ _He is such a devoted servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener._

What in Oblivion had just happened? Siari was completely paralyzed even as her mind told her it was probably her imagination.

_There is no cause for unrest, child. I know it’s you, the one who shares my iron tomb and warms my ancient bones. You are the one I have been waiting for._

Siari had to hold her breath to keep her nervous panting from being audible outside the coffin.

“Ohh, but how can I defend you?” the jester outside lamented in heartbroken desperation. “How can I exert your will? If you will not speak, to anyone?”

_Cicero does not know that I have already spoken. To you, for you are the one. My Listener. All of them speak to me, incessantly, and they are unfit because of it. Because who better to Listen than the one who never speaks?_

Cicero wailed on, sounding almost in tears. “Oh sweet Mother, Cicero has failed you. He has failed to find a Listener, for even here, in this last chapter, you have still not spoken!”

_Poor Cicero. Do not worry for him, we will soon turn his grief to joy._

Siari didn’t worry for him at all.

_It is time to reveal you as my Listener, but first, I will give you a task, one you must complete yourself. Do not let your warden stop or impede you. Her desire for control makes her blind to my will._

Siari decided to try something. Concentrating her thought, she tried to think, _She merely does what she thinks is best for the Brotherhood_ as loud as she could. Maybe she was able to send thoughts back?

But when the voice went on, unperturbed, she knew it wasn’t so. She really had been chosen as the Listener because all she could do was listen. _You must travel to Volunruud, and meet with a man called Amaund Motierre_. _He will tell you more, and you must accept his task and complete it._

Siari knew it was a bad idea to go against the Night Mother’s wishes. And even though she’d been chosen because she was unable to speak, she still felt immensely proud to be the Listener, that revered and honoured figure through whom – and only through whom – the Night Mother spoke.

_Now, tell Cicero that the time has come. He will know you are the Listener when you tell him, ‘darkness rises when the silence dies’._

Tell him? Tell him how? The lunatic might just kill her on the spot before she had a chance to write anything down.

 _Be wary of Astrid,_ the voice said, to conclude. _I grieve for the jealousy that burns inside her, and she may try to hinder or stop you. I do not wish to see her harmed, for she is my child, as you all are, but along with a deep love for you all, I also sense much envy in her, and it may drive her to desperate acts._

Siari couldn’t imagine Astrid ever hurting her, even if she burned up with jealousy. Then again, her being the Listener would seriously shift the balance of power in the Brotherhood, because even though Siari didn’t want to be in charge, being the Listener would put her in a position of responsibility, and with that would come status. Astrid would not like that.

_Now, my child. Step forward, for the Listener has been chosen._

The doors abruptly swung wide open, and Siari found herself staring straight at Cicero’s painted, furious face.

“Desecrator!” he shrieked, pointing a finger at her. Again, he cried to an imaginary audience, “This debaser, this defiler has violated the sanctity of the Night Mother’s repose.”

He drew a dagger and held it to Siari’s chin. She didn’t resist, only raised her hands to show she wouldn’t hurt him. “Explain yourself, you vile apostate!”

Siari, as calmly as she could with a dagger in her face, gestured to the Night Mother’s bones, and then to her ear.

Cicero’s eyes went wide in pure fury. “Lies!” he screeched, spit flying from his lips. “You are a liar! Trickery and deceit! The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener!”

“What’s going on here?” Astrid’s commanding voice interrupted the shouting. “Siari? What have you... were you _inside_ the...”

“Astrid!” Cicero cried. “This... this defiler desecrated our glorious Night Mother’s remains! I _demand_ she be put to death!”

“Easy now,” Astrid said, obviously uncomfortable with the situation and her position in it. “Siari’s one of us, I won’t have her killed just like that. Perhaps she can explain herself?”

“With more lies?” Cicero howled. “I will not hear her poison. She must be quartered!”

Siari furiously gesticulated to Astrid to bring her some damn paper and something to write, damn it!

“Cicero,” Astrid said nervously, “Siari’s part of our family. I will not have her killed without allowing her to defend herself. Her inability to speak should not be the death of her. If she is guilty, no amount of lying will change that, correct?”

Cicero stood panting at Siari, the knife still in her face. “Very well,” he growled. “Spill your lies, they won’t save you.”

Everyone was here now, looking on with wide eyes. Veezara still wore his chef’s hat, which would have been comical if not for the circumstances.

With a livid face, Siari held out a hand hooked into a claw for Astrid to put the piece of charcoal in. When Astrid did so, Siari saw the pleading in her eyes. _Oh please Astrid, stop caring about yourself all the time, I’m really not going to rat you out._

Still keeping her face in its indignant, angry mask, Siari marched to the wall next to the sarcophagus, and wrote, in letters half as tall as herself,

DARKNESS RISES WHEN SILENCE DIES

Then she turned around and looked at everyone with a furious glare, her hands in her sides, probably looking immensely childish as she did so.

“What... _this_ is your explanation? A line of gibberish?” Astrid asked. “Siari... you violated the Night Mother’s resting place. The penalty for this is death. You... surely you have a way to explain so we won’t have to – ”

Cicero let out an awed peep, his eyes wet with star-stricken adulation. When all eyes went to him, he breathed, “It’s true... ohh, Cicero can scarcely believe it.”

“Can someone tell me what in Oblivion is going on here?” Astrid snapped.

“Joy, lady Astrid,” Cicero whined in pure bliss. “Joy a thousand fold!”

Before Siari realized what happened, the jester dropped his knife and grabbed both Siari’s hands, dancing in circles around her like a child so she spun along with him. “The Night Mother has spoken!” he sang in rapture, “The silence has been broken!” He kept dancing and dancing, on a merry-go-round around Siari, while Festus Krex brought his index finger to his temple and made a twirling motion. “The Listener has been chosen!”

Siari let him dance, absently amused at his antics, the realization still not sinking in entirely. Festus Krex’ finger had abruptly stopped moving.

“What?” Astrid asked. “Did you say...?”

“The Night Mother has spoken,” Cicero sang again. “The Listener has been chosen.”

“Wait,” Arnbjorn asked, finally speaking. “You mean to tell me that this scrawny little rack of rib is the Listener?”

Cicero let go of Siari’s hand, though he remained in ecstatic motion, skipping and hopping through the room. “I tell you nothing,” he sang. “The Night Mother tells you. This little beauty is the Listener!”

As suddenly as he had grabbed her hands, Cicero fell to one knee before her. “Dear, glorious Listener, forgive Cicero’s trespasses. Cicero wrongly believed you were a defiler of the Night Mother’s repose, when you were in fact her chosen. Beautiful Listener, luminous Night Mother, your humble servant only acted to serve. Forgive – ”

Siari put her hand on his shoulder to shut him up, and gave him an awkward, embarrassed face. His grovelling and kneeling was a bit uncomfortable. More than a bit. Meanwhile, Krex and Veezara were busy talking amongst themselves incredulously.

“Beautiful Listener, Cicero is at your disposal,” he pledged without getting up. “The Night Mother’s will, through you, I will – ”

Siari was done being so embarrassed by this buffoon. She simply grabbed Cicero by the shoulders of his tunic and pulled. She was nowhere near strong enough to pull him up, but it was enough for him to feel it, and he immediately stood up straight. She placed her index finger on her lips to shut him up, and he did. Then she pointed at herself and slowly lowered the palms of her hands. She had to let it all sink in and she needed everyone to just calm down. Everyone just _calm down_. Siari herself, especially, had to just calm down, and she couldn’t do that with everyone all excited.

“Siari,” Astrid asked hoarsely, “Can I see you for a moment?”

Siari sighed. Right, this would get awkward. Still, Astrid had brought her into the family, and it would be seen as extremely ungrateful not to make time for her now.

“Everyone else,” Astrid said, “please, just... go back to dinner. Give me a moment to have a word with Siari, is that alright?”

It was a good sign that she wasn’t ordering people about but actually asking, Siari supposed.

“You coming?” Astrid asked. She looked like she’d just heard the worst news she could hear. Which, for her, might actually be true. Siari nodded and followed Astrid.

With a sigh, the mother figure of her little family sat down, and rubbed her eyes. “I... suppose congratulations are in order?”

With a lopsided shrug, Siari tried to tell her it was nothing special. Bruising her ego at this point might have dramatic consequences.

Astrid wouldn’t have it. “No, no. You are the Listener. That’s... quite an honour. The Night Mother, she... speaks through you now.” She paused, then looked at Siari intently. “Just... don’t go walking with your head in the clouds now, alright? I don’t want us to get at odds because our interests conflict.” She laid her hand on top of Siari’s, as she’d done a few hours before. “I care about you too much for that.”

Care too much, care too much... Siari didn’t doubt she did, but that was a veiled threat if ever there was one. ‘Don’t get in my way, or else’. Still, if it made Astrid happy if she played the good, obedient daughter, then fine, she would. She’d failed at it a long time ago, but she’d learned since then. And the means by which she’d failed were gone now anyway.

She nodded at Astrid, pointed at herself, and then her surrogate mother. Siari knew Astrid had to hear she cared about her too.

The relief was clearly visible on her face. “That’s good to hear. I’d hate for our relationship to go sour.” Another veiled warning.

Siari shook her head, promising her that wouldn’t happen.

“Good. Now, I’m sure the Night Mother gave instructions? What did she tell us to do?”

Siari briefly thought of not telling her, but she realized this would only make her more mistrustful. So she took the piece of parchment from before, turned it over and wrote,

GO TO VOLUNRUUD

MEET WITH SOMEONE CALLED ARMAND MOTIAYR

“Hm,” Astrid said, studying the parchment. “I have no idea who this... Armand Motiayr is, but I do know where Volunruud is.” She took the map behind her, making it glide through the air, and laid it on the table. She pointed at a spot with her finger, the south face of a mountain ridge, far to the north. “There you are. And who should go?”

Siari pointed at herself.

“Of course,” Astrid sighed. “Figures.”

Damn it Astrid, it wasn’t her fault this happened. She shot her an angry glare, but Astrid refused to be in any way impressed. “Keep me informed, alright?”

Siari nodded, even though she felt like telling Astrid to stick her self-importance up her asshole. She’d defied her mother once and it had led to disaster. Not this time. At least not until she really had to.

“Then I suppose you should go have dinner and do what the Night Mother tells you.”

Yes, Astrid, Siari supposed the same thing.

Looking at her map, Astrid said without much interest, “Don’t die.”

When she heard how different Astrid had become towards her, Siari was so disappointed she had to keep herself from slamming the door.


	29. Acrus: Good Intentions

 

**ACRUS**

**Good Intentions**

**College courtyard**

 

 

“You’re Arcus, aren’t you?” the mage at the entrance of the College asked when Acrus climbed the snowed-under steps to the bridge.

Acrus sighed. "It's Acrus, not Arcus." It was the same mage that had deemed him worthy to enter by making him cast a Steadfast spell to cross the bridge. Faralda, was it?

“Tolfdir wants to see you. And... I think you want to see him too.”

“Oh?” Did this mage know what he wanted, now?

A mysterious smile played around her lips. “Believe me. You do.”

Acrus went past her, rolling his eyes when she couldn’t see, stomping up the stairs and across the bridge, his pack slung over one shoulder. He supposed he had better go see what was so earth-shattering.

“Oh, hello Acrus,” Brelyna, the dunmer student said when she saw him, doing a semi-decent effort to sound happy to see him. “Tolfdir wants t – ”

“Yes, I know,” he interrupted her. He didn’t have time to listen to the same message every time, especially not from his lesser peers. Let them waste time in the lecture halls, while Acrus did the real work.

The girl gave an indignant and hurt look. Please. She was nowhere cute enough for him to actually care about her.

Tolfdir wanted to see him, and see him he did when Acrus walked into the Hall of Elements. He had to admit to himself that Faralda had been right. He really did want to see Tolfdir. Well, not so much Tolfdir, but the thing behind him.

In the centre of the Hall of the Elements was a giant crackling ball of energy, as tall as a man, and light blue in colour. It looked like it was made of interlocking magickal plates with light shining within. The radiance coming off it illuminated the entire Hall, and around it, apprentices and instructors alike stood looking in awe. And there was one who was neither apprentice nor instructor. Ancano, the insufferable Thalmor fathead. The glare from the sphere was so powerful it cast long, dark shadows of the people watching it.

“My boy,” Tolfdir strode toward him, grinning broadly and extending his hand toward the orb. “Have you ever seen such splendour?”

“Uh... not really, no. What is it?”

“What is it?” Tolfdir echoed, cackling with laughter. “What is it? It’s the orb. The one you brought back with you!”

Wait, what? “But... that was a tiny little – ”

“Yes, yes! But with some coaxing,” Tolfdir explained, completely giddy, “it unlocked into _this_.”

“Wow.”

“Wow indeed, lad! I don’t know what Savos Aren has you doing,” Acrus pretended not to know what he was talking about, “but you should report whatever you’ve found to him immediately.” Tolfdir clapped him in the shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’m just going to stand here... and... look... at the orb.” And look he did, turning to the massive ball of energy, his face in rapture.

Acrus left him to his starstruckness and went to see the Archmage. Or better, Mirabelle Ervine, since he was reporting to her. Best not screw this up by not respecting the hierarchy.

“You there.”

Acrus sighed and wondered if the pompous blowhard always addressed people with those same two words.

“I would speak with you.”

This time Acrus could not suppress a groan and a roll of the eyes. What a ponce. “Yes, uh... what was your name again?”

The man could barely contain his indignation, much to Acrus’ pleasure. “Ancano, you lout. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Psijic Order?”

Now that was a strange coincidence. Had someone been blabbing? “I’ve heard of them as I’ve heard of the Thalmor.” He resisted the urge to add, _not much, although they probably think I should have._

“A member of the Order has been here. Looking for you,” Ancano said, looking down his nose with his arms crossed. “By name.” He looked as if the very notion struck him as utterly ridiculous.

“Uh... well, I don’t know what he wanted,” Acrus merely said, though he had an idea. Clearly Ancano hadn’t been told about the vision. Good. The less the inflated git knew about him the better.

“Come. We must confer with Savos Aren about this. I find it all...” he made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “very unsavoury.”

Unsavoury. Well alright then. Ancano strode towards the Archmage’s quarters and Acrus followed him. If anyone was going to get chewed out for bothering the Archmage, it would be the windbag elf, and not him anyway.

Without knocking, Ancano barged into the Archmage’s Quarters, interrupting Savos Aren as he was performing the slightly underwhelming job of rearranging the flowers in the vase on his desk. “Ancano,” the Archmage sighed, “I expect an Orc or a Nord not to knock. They’re honest, straightforward people. To them, knocking simply isn’t in their culture. From you, however, I do expect a level of decency that makes me suspect you have an elongated object inside a lower part of your anatomy.”

“This isn’t the time for frivolities, Arch-mage,” Ancano blurted, his face red with suppressed anger. “This... _boy_ here, this manling, has – ”

Ancano didn’t finish his sentence. He simply stopped, all time grinding to a halt around Acrus until all was motionless and soundless.

Not all. A man in mage robes stepped forward out of the shadows. The same man Acrus had seen in his visions. “Don’t be alarmed, young one,” he said, unaffected by the temporal standstill around them. “My name is Quaranir, of the Psijic Order. The Eye of Magnus,” he explained, “the orb of energy in your central hall... It is dangerous. Very much so.”

Acrus tried to speak, but realized that he was unable to move, also in temporal stasis, though unlike Savos Aren and the anal retentive Elf, he was aware of what was transpiring, and being actively spoken to.

“The longer it remains in the College, the more dangerous it becomes. However, we are... unsure of how things must proceed. What is certain is that the Eye must be banished, or dire consequences will result. It falls to you, young one, to search for the Augur, and seek its council.” The bearded mage placed two hands on his shoulders. “We have chosen you, Acrus Vadosus. Fate itself has chosen you. Seek the Augur.”

The mage abruptly vanished and time, like a stone teetering on its edge, fell back into speed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ancano demanded to know. “What has just occurred? There was an interruption, I am certain of it.”

Savos Aren had clearly felt it too, but all he did was respond with a shrug saying he had nothing to do with it.

“It must be those infuriating Psijics,” Ancano raged on. “They spoke to you, didn’t they? What did they say? Tell me this instant.”

Acrus shot a quick look at the Arch-Mage, who gave a short nod. “He said uh, that the Eye of Magnus... the thing in the Hall of Elements... is dangerous and needs to be banished.”

“Sounds rather preposterous to me,” was all Ancano had to scoff about that.

“Yes, well, that’s what he said. Seems we need to find someone or something called the Augur to learn more.”

“The Augur?” Ancano repeated, “Hmph, never heard of it. Perhaps you should spend less of your time with crazy notions and more with your studies, hm?”

Savos Aren was, surprisingly, equally dismissive of the name. “Has Tolfdir been telling stories again?” he asked, mildly irritated. “Filling students’ heads with crazy tales? When you see him next,” he told Acrus, “do instruct the old man to knock it off, will you?”

“But – ”

“It’s getting late,” the Arch-mage said. “I’m sure A              ncano wishes to retire?”

The Elf set his jaw at the veiled but clear order to leave, then he spun on his heels and stomped out.

When he was gone, the Archmage said, “Look, student. I don’t know where you got this crazy idea about the Augur, but Tolfdir should really stop putting stories into his students’ heads. Did you find the books I asked for?”

“Yes, Arch-mage, I have them in my pack in my room, but – ”

The Arch-mage smiled kindly. “Well done. For now, that will do. Urag gro-Shub will collect them, and we will study them. If this is indeed the Eye of Magnus, then it’s worth learning all we can about it.” He laid a hand on Acrus’ shoulder and gently led him outside. “You’ve done well, Acrus. You’ve earned your rest. Go downstairs to the refectory, have yourself a good, copious dinner, a full glass of wine,” he chuckled, “or two, and get some rest.”

“But – ”

“There will be plenty of time to get to the bottom of this tomorrow. No point beginning our research poorly rested. I will send for you in the morning, don’t worry. I have no intention of excluding you from these events, but we all need our rest.”

Though he wanted to start right now, Acrus was put at ease by the Arch-mage’s words, and believed him when he’d said he wanted everyone to be well-rested. And Acrus guessed he had a point. “Very well, Arch-mage. I look forward to unravelling this mystery.”

The Arch-mage gave him an encouraging grin. “Good man. And don’t worry about Ancano. He’s full of hot air, but I don’t think he’ll pose a problem.”

Neither the Arch-mage nor Acrus knew how wrong he was.

When he came down, he crossed paths with the Nord student he was supposed to be attending lectures with – well, if he didn’t have more important things to do anyway. Onmund, Acrus believed his name was. Whatever.

“Oh, Acrus. You’re back.”

“So I am.”

“If you’re going to the refectory, there’s a rather interesting pair of guests there.”

Acrus hoped it wasn’t more Thalmor. “That so?”

“M-hm.” Onmund’s face bore an amused grin. “Trust me, it’s worth taking a detour for.”

It wasn’t a detour for Acrus, and it wasn’t like he’d make one just to gawk at some insignificant guests.

Although...

The two people sitting in the refectory were the only ones left, and Acrus hadn’t seen them before. Two women, one Nord-looking and one with Elven features, but not as prissy-looking as the Altmer... Bosmer probably. The Nord girl was absolutely stunning, with shoulder-length brown hair , the front tied into a double braid that went around her head, tied together at the back, and an absolutely gorgeous face, regal and at the same time possessing a natural, earthly beauty. The other, the Bosmer, certainly wasn’t ugly, at all, though she wasn’t a knock-out like the Nord. She had a slender, exotic-looking face with long yellow hair that fell straight down without a curl or a wave whatsoever. Her cheekbones were prominent and chiselled, and though her narrow nose was slightly hooked, it didn’t detract much from her not-bad appearance.

Still, the Nord girl blew her Bosmer companion straight out of the water in the looks department. She looked like she was sculpted by Azura herself, and her noble yet practical garb complemented her noble yet girlish face excellently.

Acrus knew what he was going to do. He was going to get himself a glass of wine and get acquainted.

“Evening ladies,” he said, flashing his most winning smile. He’d let the cook fill a small plate for him, so he had an excuse to sit down. “Mind if I join you? Eating alone is so alone.”

The Bosmer girl’s look was wary, almost suspicious, but the breathtaking Nord smiled back and said, “It’s your Guild, you sit wherever you like.”

Undeterred by the lukewarm response, Acrus focused on the more important thing – her body language – and said, “Well, in that case, wherever I like is here.”

The Bosmer didn’t seem very happy with the fact, but Acrus knew better than to take it personally. “Shouldn’t we...” she asked, but the Nord cut her off, “No, no. It’s alright. We can have a chat. Get acquainted with some of the Guild people.”

Her eyes were strange. The Bosmer’s eyes too. There was nothing _wrong_ with them, but they were different.

“Can I interest anyone in some more wine?” he asked, hoping to placate the Wood Elf enough so she’d stop being so guarded. Was she the other’s bodyguard? It was possible, she wore a short sword on her belt. It seemed to have had an emblem on it at one point, but it was filed off to unrecognisability.

“No thank you,” the noblewoman said, still with her friendly smile. “We’re good. Don’t want a hangover tomorrow.”

Acrus wouldn’t mind taking her up to her room and tear that noble dress right off her. Then he remembered something. “Oh, forgive me I’ve been rude. Name’s Acrus Vadosus. Student at the College, but... probably not for long.”

“Why not for long?” the Bosmer asked, her wariness slightly less.

“Oh, I’m not about to get kicked out or anything,” Acrus said quickly. “But I’m working on something, with the lecturers, that might, well... make me eligible for quicker advancement.”

“Really?” the Nord woman asked, leaning back in her chair. “Feel like sharing?”

“I would,” Acrus admitted, “but I’ve been instructed not to talk about it.” He wasn’t about to mess this up just so he could impress the ladies. At least, not until he was certain they were worth impressing.

“I can respect that,” the Nord lady said. “My name is Serana, this is Roë.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Serana. Roë.”

The Bosmer nodded back, still keeping him at arm’s length.

“And you, Acrus,” the Nord said back.

“May I ask what brings your charming persons to our Guild?” Acrus asked.

With a chuckle, the noblewoman replied, “You certainly can, but I fear we have to give you the same answer. We’re not at liberty to talk about it.”

“And I, in turn, can respect that too.”

When the Nord woman looked at him, Acrus saw the hunger in her eyes. He knew it was a hunger for him. And even the Bosmer couldn’t hide her craving. Acrus felt his head go light when he permitted himself the hope of bringing both of them to the guest room beds.

He shouldn’t rush it though. You had to gently, carefully coax women to the end you desired. “Well, can you at least tell me where you’re from?”

“Certainly. I’m from a castle just off the shore, all the way North.”

“Ah. The both of you?”

“No,” the Elf said, still on guard. “I’m from Solitude originally.” After a brief look at what Acrus surmised was her mistress, she added, “Was with the Guard. Then took up bodyguarding.”

“Ah,” Acrus said with a smile. “Yes I suppose the increase in pay alone would make that a worthwhile choice.”

“It was... more a matter of necessity.”

Oh dear. The lass had probably been booted or ‘asked to leave’. Best not to push it. “And the bodyguarding life finding you well?” He’d learned over the years that to speak and give the most attention to the one you weren’t the most attracted to, was the best plan to get the actual target to drop her knickers.

“It’s alright,” the girl shrugged, looking at the table. Hm, she clearly hadn’t chosen this life voluntarily.

The Nord woman, Serana, had picked up on it, and she changed the subject. “And where’d you blow in from, Acrus?” Interest, that was good. “This College doesn’t seem like a place where babies are born.”

“No, I came from the Imperial Province. Was a bit tired of the way they practiced magick there.” The noblewoman raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” he explained. “Too bookish. Repeating gestures and words over and over and over again. The magick here is much more... primal, to put a word to it. You feel the weave and you pluck the threads you need, weave them into a spell, and you’re casting magick. In Cyrodiil, you have to practice finger-gestures for a year before you’re even allowed to _look_ at a spellbook.”

“I see,” the noblewoman said, still leaning back casually in her chair, a curious but confident look on her face. “You’re a man of instincts rather than book smarts?”

Acrus chuckled. “Well, I like to think I’m both. Just my way of actually practicing magick is more suited to Skyrim than Cyrodiil. Just wish the weather was better.”

“Oh, you and me both,” she responded. Good. Common ground. He noticed that the Bosmer, though she was still wary, had a more and more perceptible hunger to her eyes.

He was doing pretty well, but the grand prize was still not in reach. He kept his eyes from straying to Serana’s cleavage. The way the pale, smooth skin of her breasts reflected the light made him dizzy.

“Yes, the weather here certainly isn’t like Cyrodiil,” he continued on his winning tangent. “I prefer a nice little sun, so you can go for a swim. Riverbank weather, you know?”

“M-hm. I know. Lovely, isn’t it?”

The Bosmer girl, Roway or something, looked at her mistress with puzzled eyes. Acrus thought he had an idea why. Serana wasn’t telling the truth, but he knew she did it to impress him.

The idea of having the gorgeous noble naked on all fours with the bodyguard watching made him reach for his glass of wine.

The bodyguard in question got a look from her mistress, whose eyes then went to her plate, telling her to eat and not insult their hosts.

The girl did as she was told, with a lot of reluctance, taking up a spoonful of horker stew and sticking it in her mouth, swallowing it almost instantly. She tried to suppress her grimace, but didn’t come even close to succeeding. She looked as if she was keeping down vomit.

“Is something wrong with the food?” Acrus asked in feigned concern. “Would you like me to bring you something else?”

“No, no,” her mistress answered in her stead. “Roë is just a fussy eater.”

“Are you sure? It’s no effort.”

“No. No thank you,” the Bosmer said, still looking a bit queasy. “I’ve uh... got some trouble eating after bruising my abdominal muscles yesterday.”

Could you even bruise muscles? Acrus decided not to care.

“I think I’ll retire now,” Serana said abruptly, rising from her chair.

Both Acrus and her bodyguard were caught by surprise, the Bosmer girl blurting out, “What? But weren’t we, I mean...”

“No,” the noblewoman said. “I’ll... leave you two to it.” The suggestion couldn’t be more clear. This woman had clearly been setting her bodyguard up for a night of détente. A reward for all the hard work, Acrus supposed. He was seriously miffed, though. He’d hoped to get the white hot brunette into his bed, and now he had to settle for the ‘only’ not-bad-looking bodyguard.

Still, he probably wouldn’t have a cold bed tonight, and a rather-pretty bodyguard was better than nothing at all. Not the gold ribbon, but an acceptable consolation prize nonetheless. A bit underfurnished in the tits department, probably a few bony protrusions here and there, like all Bosmer, but she had a cute face, if a bit cold. She’d do.

“Make sure he’s fit for lectures tomorrow,” the gorgeous creature said, getting up from her chair and walking out of his hopes. When she left, Acrus had to resist the urge to look at her ass. What she’d said to her bodyguard had confirmed Acrus’ impression, though. Seemed he’d serve as a reward for her companion.Her mistress had done the preparatory work of getting him all keyed up, so now her bodyguard just had to take the last steps. Acrus didn’t mind being used as remuneration in this case, even if he did miss out on some hot Nord action..

“Well uh...” the girl said, clearly put in an awkward situation. Acrus would put her at ease, no problem. “I’m going to sit here for a little bit longer. You?”

“Of course,” Acrus said with a smile. “I’d be a fool to pass up a chance at spending time with a beautiful lady.”

What Acrus saw on her face then, gave him a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Over her face came a peculiar mixture of emotions, as if the compliment made her profoundly happy and yet deeply sad at the same time. The corners of her mouth went up, but her lower lip trembled slightly. Her eyes lit up, but at the same time, her eyebrows moved slightly closer together. He didn’t know the reasons for either feeling, but the effect it had on him was... utterly unexpected.

She was no longer a potential bed partner in his eyes, no longer a prize to be won, but... a real person. Acrus hadn’t seen women as real people in a long time. How hadn’t he realized? How hadn’t he known that he’d been completely dehumanizing women for so long? It’s as if the numbness, the blindness he’d felt after Anorra’s death had simply remained, without him knowing, and even though he’d thought he’d healed, in reality, it had always been there. Until now. Until this woman had come along, someone he considered an insignificant bodyguard, not a person, but just a job with a body, just a potential piece of... fuckmeat, he had to admit it to himself, until, with one reaction, with one mere response to his compliment, just a few facial muscles, but filled with such a massive, explosive multitude of emotion, she’d blown his eyes wide open.

The realization that he’d been blind and numb all this time struck him so hard, he felt like his mind was being hit by a battering ram. What kind of person had he been all this time? And how had he not realized?

“Hey... are you alright?”

He’d just been sitting there, slack-jawed, his spoon of stew in his hand.

“Uh... should I call someone?”

Acrus, with an immense effort of will, freed himself from his paralysis. “No... no, I’m alright. I just... realized something.”

The girl’s eyebrow went up. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

No. Nothing bad at all. Something that made him feel immensely guilty and ashamed, and something which would cause him to make things right with a few people, but nothing bad. Something pretty wonderful, even. He’d been unhappy, miserable even, and treating people the same way, and he simply hadn’t realized. “No,” he told her. “Nothing bad.”

He hesitated a moment, but he realized that if he wanted to make things right, he’d have to start right now. “Lady Roë, this has been a wonderful evening, but I really should head to bed now.”

“Really?” there was a flash of doubt in her eyes. “I thought... well, I thought we were having a pleasant evening?”

“We are,” he assured her, even though his pleasantness had been all an act until now, “but I just...”

“Just what?” she asked, looking like she was about to start pleading.

“I... feel like I’d be taking advantage,” he confessed. “You’re obviously a nice person and, well... I can’t explain it, but I feel like I haven’t been honest with you.”

“In... what way?” she was clearly dreading the answer.

“It doesn’t matter.” He couldn’t really explain it himself, and even if he could, wanting to change his ways didn’t mean having to confess them to someone he’d just met. “But please believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you.” Well, not in the sense that there’s anything wrong with you anyway.

“Look,” she said, looking desperate. “I could really use some company tonight. Not... I mean, not because of anything lewd, just... I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

There was more to this than met the eye, Acrus realized that, somewhere in his mind – maybe she was even tricking him – but the feeling was too faint in his thoughts, and he was currently in such an unfamiliar state of mind himself, that he didn’t recognize what it was. “But... thing is, I don’t want you to think I’m – ”

“No. No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’m asking, so you’re not taking advantage. If that’s really the reason, then don’t worry about it.”

Sometimes, even when a person was asking, she was still being taken advantage of, and Acrus suspected that this was the case – that, or she’d been ordered by her mistress to get someone of the College into bed and get him to blab... whatever.

Maybe it was about the Eye of Magnus? After all, he didn’t know who these people were. He’d have to be on his guard, but on the other hand, if this girl was really just looking for company, he really couldn’t make her feel shitty for what might be no reason at all.

So he came up with an intermediate solution. “Look, I’ll walk you to your room at least. How ‘bout that?”

“I... suppose.”

“Shall we?”

He did as he’d promised, walking the elven girl to her room, while telling her about the College, giving her a tour insofar as their route allowed, and sharing some gossip about the lecturers he’d caught from his fellow students. She listened more or less intently, but Acrus couldn’t help notice she was distracted... as if there was a powerful feeling she was trying to ignore, but couldn’t entirely. He also saw she had trouble swallowing, as if her throat was dry. She was clearly doing the effort to stay concentrated, but didn’t succeed entirely. What a strange girl she was.

They reached the guest wing, and the door to her room. And with that, the awkward moment Acrus had been apprehensive about. Because he didn’t think he wasn’t taking advantage. He’d done all he could to seduce both women, and her mistress had either pressured her into this, or convinced her to do something she wasn’t certain of. Either way, it would be wrong of him to just take what he could get.

“Would you... like to come in?”

This convinced Acrus entirely. The way she asked it, hesitant and nervous, made it clear that she wasn’t doing this simply because she wanted to. There was more to it than this, and she was being used as a patsy, probably by her mistress, who, despite being smoking, also struck him as rather manipulative. Something was going on. Thinking on his feet, Acrus realized that if he just spurned her, she’d probably get in trouble with her mistress. So the best idea was to say, “Sure. Sure, why not.”

She pushed the door open and let him enter, sitting next to him on the bed. Immediately, before he’d even had a chance to say something, she went for his collar and began undoing the buttons.

Feeling her fingers working so eagerly to get his clothes off, Acrus felt an immense temptation to just let her do what she wanted, or what she thought she wanted, and what he, more than a bit, wanted too. But he had to change, and if he didn’t change now, he never would.

“Stop. Stop, Roë.”

The girl looked up at him, her almond-shaped elven eyes big with surprise. “Wh... what? I thought... I thought you wanted...”

He gently took her hands off the front of his shirt. “Yes, I want. But it’s not about what I want.”

“Yes it is,” she protested. “It’s fine, just let me – ”

“I’m not an idiot, Roë. I know you’re not doing this for the right reasons.” When he was met with a blank stare, he continued, “Look, maybe you think you want this, but I’ve been watching you, and I don’t think you do. I don’t want to... make you do things against your will. I have... things to atone for. I’ll stay with you if you like, but not... I’ll stay with you just to keep you company. No, more than that. Just to be close to you.”

She kept quiet, her eyes still on him.

“I want to do this right, Roë. And I think just holding you tonight is what’s right. For both of us.”

She looked at him for a few moments longer, then let out a desperate, frustrated groan, slumping forward, her arms hanging between her legs. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

“I know, it’s complic – ”

“She said they’d all be after one thing. She said she could recognize them, and that you were like them,” the girl groaned, still slumped forward. “That they all deserved it anyway.”

Wait, what? “Roë... what did you say?”

She lifted her head again and Acrus saw her face was close to tears. “I’m sorry... I’ve been lying to you. You’re... not here for... well, _that_ , but...”

Acrus jumped up from the bed. “Roë, then why? To rob me?”

She shook her head. “No. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Look, just... sit down.”

He did so, but kept his distance. “Try me anyway.” Somehow, he felt that she really wanted to tell, even though she shouldn’t.

She sat there, her eyes closed. “Serana said she could spot potential victims. Said she only picked the... ‘acceptable targets’, as she called it. The guys who were only after one thing, the ones who only saw you as meat. And... the ones who’d force themselves on you if you said no.”

Acrus kept quiet. The woman had been more accurate than Roë knew, but he was no longer that person. His eyes had opened, and he knew he’d have a lot to make up for. He’d never really forced himself on anyone, but he had to admit he’d made liberal use of wine, false pretenses and some gentle pressure to get a few girls to do what he wanted. But that was the past now, this girl had blown his eyes wide open. He hadn’t been a bad person, just... blind.

“They were ideal,” the girl went on. “Because you could get them to do as you wanted, and when their guard was down...”

Whatever this was, it was something seriously frightening. “Then what, Roë?”

She looked up at him, and again he saw the strangeness of her eyes. The way they reflected the light red. The hunger in them. He’d thought it was a sexual hunger at first, but he realized he’d been mistaken. This was something else... what? “Serana will kill me if I tell you.”

What in Oblivion was going on here? “Then we make sure Serana doesn’t find out. Are you... her prisoner?”

“ _No_ , no,” she said quickly. “No, Serana is my friend, I... care about her. A lot. But it’d just be... really, really dangerous if I told you.”

“Dangerous for you, or for me?”

“For us,” she sighed. “Serana and me.”

“Roë,” Acrus said to her, “I promise you, right here, that nothing you say leaves this room. Part of you obviously wants to tell me, so if you want to, don’t be afraid.” He knew his manipulative abilities were still very much present, but now he was using them for good. It made him feel... _saved_ , somehow.

“Do you swear?” she asked, her eyes full of fear and doubt.

“On my immortal soul, Roë,” he pledged, meaning every word.

She sat there for a moment, her eyes closed. “I’ll... I don’t think telling you would work. I’ll have to show you.”

“You don’t have one of those freaky belly buttons that sticks outwards, do you?” Acrus said, in hopes of breaking the tension somewhat.

It worked a bit, a faint smile playing around her lips, then it was gone again. “No. Just... just watch.”

“Alright. Whatever it is, I won’t think any less of you.” It was a ridiculously untenable promise to make, but he did it anyway.

The girl closed her eyes again, and it was as if a veil fell off her. Her smooth skin slid away, revealing the face she’d kept hidden, the cheeks sunken, the eyes set deep in dark sockets. Her skin looked like it was stretched over her bones, and yet, somehow, there was still an unearthly beauty to the thing before him.

Then the Roë-thing opened her eyes.

Acrus had been holding his breath when the illusion fell away, but now his throat closed on its own accord, making him unable to breathe at all. The sclera of the creature’s eyes were like black glass, and the irises blazed with glowing fire, as if her eyes were polished black marbles set with a ring of lava.

“By the... ” Acrus couldn’t even finish his invocation of the first godly thing that came to his mind, because he simply had no air to do it with.

“Am I that horrifying?” the Roë-thing asked. “I haven’t even dared to look in a mirror yet.”

Whatever she was now, or always had been with an illusion to cover it up, it was still her. It still spoke, and still sounded human. Acrus forced himself to resume breathing, and said in a hoarse voice, “No... it’s... not that bad, it’s just...your eyes. What are you? A daedra?”

“No.” When she pulled her upper lip back and showed her sharp, elongated eye teeth, Acrus realized what this creature was.

“... Vampire?”

“I never asked for this,” the thing said. “Never chose it.”

Even with all the blazing power now radiating from this creature, as if it were hot waves washing over him, Acrus felt more pity for her than fear. “So you’re Vampires, then? You and Serana?” He tried to sound as collected as possible, even though he was completely knocked off his feet.

Roë (because it was Roë, not ‘the Roë-thing’) said, “Yes. She’s really old, like ancient. I just... I didn’t become this until recently.” Her voice sounded close to breaking.

“And did you bring me here to... kill me and drink my blood?”

“Not kill you,” she said immediately. “At least, not on purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Serana said... well, that new... things like me, we... can’t really estimate it well. Sometimes fledglings accidentally kill people when they’re not supposed to. They take too much, and the victim dies after a while because of blood shortage. And sometimes they even... drink so much they kill the victim while they feed. That’s dangerous, they can become monsters if they do that.” The words were coming out like a waterfall now, and she sounded disgusted with herself. “Anyway, the danger is there in the beginning, so the first few victims are usually people who, well... wouldn’t be a big loss if they died.”

“Well thanks,” he said hoarsely.

“Serana got you wrong, alright?” she pleaded. “She thought you were like those guys who were only driven by lust, who thought only about themselves. The sort of guys who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

She hadn’t been that wrong. He’d sat at their table with only one thing in mind. Shame washed over him, but he kept quiet, and only he realized how this girl had effectively saved his life by giving back his humanity. “So what happens now?”

“Now? I hope Serana’s concluded her business here, because it won’t be safe to stay. I believe you when you say you won’t tell, but... we can’t take the chance. They’ll burn us if they find out. Well, unless Serana...”

“Unless Serana what?”

Roë’s blazing eyes looked away. “Unless she defends herself.”

“We’re in the middle of the College of Winterhold, Roë. The greatest mages in Skyrim are gathered here. I don’t think Serana – ”

“Serana is _ancient_ , Acrus. I’m talking thousands of years old. And even though you might not believe me, she’s a wonderful person, she’d never hurt anyone if she didn’t have to, but...”

“Anyway, it’s all moot. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Her face of monstrous beauty made a weak smile. “Thank you. I’ll go hungry tonight, ma           ybe even starve, but I think it’s for the best.”

“Starve?”

I’m _hungry_ , Acrus,” she said. “I know my strength won’t hold out much longer. Serana said starving Vampires rampage, but I... just don’t have the will or the energy. So I think I’ll just fall over and stop existing when I’m starved.”

“You... might not have to?” He couldn’t believe he was saying this.

Her blazing eyes went up to his. “What do you mean?”

“Well... you say you choose bad people as victims, right? But there’s something even better. Something you’d have to feel even less guilty about. A willing victim.”

He saw her tongue slowly running across her incisors. She didn’t seem aware of it. “You’d... do that for me?”

“I don’t know. Is it dangerous? I mean, can I... catch it?”

“No. Serana said feeding alone doesn’t transfer the disease. It’s the claws that do it. And even if it did, you’d just need your Restoration lecturer to cast a cure spell in its early stages. It’s easily cured. If you treat in time.” She hid her face in her hands and peeped, “I didn’t.”

“I’m... sorry, Roë.”

“I can’t even cry,” her torn voice came, muffled by her hands. “I can’t even cry anymore. I just want to _cry_.”

He kept silent. Boots bonked on the floor in the hallway. Probably a guard who passed by.

“Serana says it’ll get better in time, but right now... I’m sorry, I shouldn‘t be bothering you with this. Anyway, I can’t ask this of you. Even though it should be safe, I don’t trust myself. I... already killed someone, by accident.”

“What, by overfeeding?”

“No. No, I’ve only... it’s only been animals so far. No, I... didn’t know how strong I’d become, and I killed someone who attacked us. Someone who thought he was doing the right thing, fighting monsters. A boy, not even a man yet, a naive farm hand who thought he’d help the world by fighting vampires. I... kicked him right off a rooftop.” Then she said to no one in particular, “I’m so sorry, Agmaer.”

“Roë,” Acrus said gently. Even between all the confusion and turmoil, it felt good to use his social skills to actually help people. “You said yourself it was by accident. You didn’t mean for it to happen. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“No one ever does, Acrus,” she said. “But he’s dead, and it’s my fault. And that’s why I’m afraid to accept your offer now. I might... might not be able to contain myself. And if you were like Serana said you’d be, it would be one thing, but you’re sitting here, shaming me with your kindness.”

“Roë. I’m not as kind as you think I am. I’ve changed, but I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life,” Acrus told her. She’d been honest with him, he had to be honest too. “Your Serana wasn’t that wrong about me. I’ve been blind and stupid, thinking only about myself, and I’ve hurt people, by being selfish and dishonest. I’ve got a lot of things to make up for. And I already started today. Let me follow through. We help each other, right?”

“It might be – ”

He shook his head. “No, Roë. I have faith in you. You’ll be careful.”

She looked torn between her hunger and her guilt, but her hunger won out, which was in itself a slightly scary fact. Acrus decided to ignore it. “For what it’s worth,” the girl said, “I’ve heard that once you’re past the pain of the fangs, it’s a wonderful feeling.”

“You mean, being fed on?”

She grimaced at the word. “Yes. Serana said we usually go for victims who are asleep, but apparently it’s a feeling of bliss if it happens when you’re awake. Or so I’m told.” Her fingers played with the green woollen blanket on the bed.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Roë, you need this.” He put his hand on hers, and realized it was icy cold. “And so do I.”

“Are you _sure_?”

He nodded. “So do I just... tilt my head, or...?”

“Yes. Should be fine. Everything should come natural, Serana said. She was right about the animals too.”

“Well, dinner’s served, I guess,” Acrus joked wryly.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Acrus.”

“No, Roë,” he said. “Thank you, for giving back my humanity. No matter what happens now, you’ve saved me.”

She blinked, the embers in her eyes flickering. “I... haven’t done anything?”

“Believe me,” he said. “You’ve done more than you know.” He tilted his head, exposing his throat, and pulled his collar down. “Sorry, I haven’t shaved.”

A brief smile, and then, “We’ll be gone when you wake up tomorrow. So this is goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Roë. I’ll never forget you.”

“Nor I you.”

He closed his eyes, and felt a sharp stab of pain when Roë’s fangs sank into his skin and bit through, puncturing his carotid artery. There was warmth on his skin where the blood ran down, but an ice cold tongue caressed him, licking up the warm stream.

Her body pressed against his, and he felt himself go lightheaded and lay back, Roë’s body on top of him. Far away, he heard her moan in passion. She’d been right, he realized, as a wave of pure bliss washed over him and he drank in the joy, same as she was. The feeling was wonderful, and he felt himself lose consciousness as Roë drank. He wasn’t afraid. She’d know when to stop. He was chosen to do great things, the Psijic order had told him so. He was protected, chosen by a higher power. There were great things waiting for him, and as darkness came over him and he wrapped himself in the warm, wonderful feeling of pure ecstasy, he felt no fear.

There was no fear at all. She would stop in time.


	30. Roë: Bloodstone Chalice

  **ROË**

**Bloodstone Chalice**

**Castle Volkihar**

 

“About time you came to.” Roë immediately recognized the amused voice before she could see who it came from. She’d blacked out after being bitten by Serana’s father, the same Serana who was sitting next to her, judging from the direction of the voice.

She opened her eyes, and though she lay on a soft surface, it wasn’t a bed. And there were low wooden walls next to her. As if she was in a box.

No, not a box.

When she realized, Roë immediately sat up straight. “I’m in a coffin!”

Serana giggled. “It’s a little bit of atmosphere-making from father. He thinks it’s more appropriate if we sleep in coffins.”

Roë couldn’t get out of the ghastly thing fast enough, almost tripping over the wall of the box when she launched herself out of it. “Cack! You call this appropriate?” she snapped. “It’s... fucking morbid!”

Serana shrugged. “Hey. We’re Vampires.”

Roë sat down on the floor and slumped. “No need to remind me.”

“Come on,” Serana said, rising from her high-backed, padded chair and holding out her hand. “Don’t be grumpy. I told you it’ll get better, and it will. Don’t you feel different now?”

Come to think of it, she did. The empty feeling of deadness wasn’t gone, not at all, it was still the same as before, and she still felt sad, melancholic and forlorn, but her body felt different. Even more powerful than before. It was as if she could feel the blood circulating through her veins, even though her heart no longer beat. It was a feeling of threads of throbbing power flowing through her, so strong it almost hurt.

“Now you’ve got our eyes too,” Serana remarked. “Makes you look a lot more impressive.”

“I don’t want to look impressive,” Roë said quietly. “I want to look alive.”

“Oh, stop belly-aching. You just need to pull through in the beginning, and then it gets easier.”

Even though she should have felt furious at Serana’s condescending minimalization of her feelings, the other woman’s confidence and cheer put her at rest. She didn’t know how Serana did it, but she always had a calming, soothing effect on Roë, and Roë was glad for it. Glad she had a friend.

“My father wants to see us as soon as you’re feeling better,” Serana said, still sitting casually on the padded chair, but Roë could tell she was more tense than she wanted to appear. “Probably to give you the opportunity to thank him for his gift.”

“Let me guess,” Roë said with a sigh, sitting down on the chair opposite Serana’s (this one wasn’t padded). “I get to thank him by doing something ridiculously dangerous for him?”

“Not necessarily,” Serana said. “My father said his gift was a reward for returning me, and he meant it. He’s a lot of things, but what he is not is a man who doesn’t keep his word.”

“At least,” Roë said, fully aware that she was being a cynic, “not until it would serve his plans to do so.”

Serana only shrugged. “He’s a pragmatic man. Come on, let’s go see him. He’ll probably offer you some kind of proposition, and he’ll try to make it sound like the best offer you’ve ever had, but apart from embellishing the deal, he won’t force you. You’re free to refuse.” She gave Roë an urgent look. “Remember that. You’re free to refuse.”

“Right.”

Lord Harkon sat on his throne of stone, in that slightly slumped pose that all nobles in Skyrim seemed to adopt when sitting on their chairs. He cracked a wide smile when he saw them. “Ah. My wonderful daughter returns, as does her saviour. Tell me child, how does it feel? Different from the muddy paste that ran through your veins before, no?”

Roë couldn’t understand how the man could spend his days sitting on this stone chair, in this dismal, gray throne room, the only colour coming from the red fountains sending their liquid up through their spouts, and back down into rippling basins. Roë wondered if it was blood, and realized it probably was. It certainly smelled metallic enough. It was another thing she noticed: even though she no longer breathed, she was still, somehow, able to smell things, and even more sharply than before.

“It feels... more potent, yes,” Roë said quietly.

Lord Harkon set a bout of laughter free. “More potent, indeed. Believe me, child, you will see and feel the extent of its potency yet, and it will amaze you.”

Roë felt a boot gently nudge her in the shin, and when she looked at Serana, her friend gave her a compelling look. Oh, right!

“Lord Harkon, I would thank you for the gift you have bestowed on me,” she said, not really meaning it. No amount of gifts could take her emptiness, her deadness, away. But she had to act the part, she was at the court of a de facto king after all. And even with all the deadness inside, his charisma didn’t entirely miss its effect on her. He was charismatic, magnetic even, which was probably one of the reasons he’d gathered such a big coven here, all standing ready to do his bidding.

His smile widened, his ego clearly appeased. “It was your reward for returning my daughter, child. No gratitude is necessary.” Except it was. “Now, for the reason I summoned you here. I would make you a proposition, if you are interested?”

Dismissing it out of hand was certainly not advised, even if she had no intention of taking the opportunity. “Uh... I’m listening?”

“Perhaps my daughter has already told you what we are setting in motion?”

Roë briefly looked to Serana, whose face was unreadable, and then back to Harkon. “No, Lord Harkon. I... all I know is that Ser... Lady Serana needed an escort back to her father.”

“Good. It would be unwise to reveal too much before we have even started.”

“Not to mention the fact that I can’t tell her anything if you don’t tell me anything,” Serana interrupted sourly.

“All in good time, my lovely daughter,” Harkon brushed her aside. “Our more immediate goal is the restoration of an old artefact. The Bloodstone Chalice.”

Serana gave a humourless chuckle. “Should have known that thing would be involved at some point.”

“Indeed.” He turned back to Roë. “It needs to be refilled. But not just with any old slop. It’s an errand that might prove... dangerous.”

She didn’t care for any errands, dangerous or no. She really wanted to crawl inside a cave and lament for years and years. “And if I refuse?” she asked, making sure to err on the side of caution.

It was unnecessary, because Harkon simply smiled broadly and said, “Then that is your right. You owe me nothing. My gift has brought you into the fold, but it was merely a gratitude for returning my precious daughter to me. You are not indebted to me in any way.”

Roë wasn’t an idiot. He was clearly laying on the guilt as thickly as he dared. By saying she owed him nothing, he was obviously trying to exploit the magnanimity-angle as much as possible. Because how could you refuse a man who so selflessly gave you supposedly immense power? Funny thing was, it actually worked, to an extent. Even though she knew it was manipulation, she really did feel compelled to accept the offer. Still, though, whatever these Vampires were planning, Roë felt it would only lead to more monstrous things, so she said, “I again thank you for your gift, Lord Harkon, but... sadly, I must decline.” She didn’t recall where she’d become so habituated to speaking formally... maybe that had come with the gift too?

“Your response saddens me, child, but I am nothing if not an understanding father. Will you stay for a while longer, though? Time is the only thing we have an eternity of.”

“I uh... I’m sure I don’t have to leave just yet.”

“Good. Good. In that case, my daughter, you will have to complete the task alone. Unless you’d like a retainer with you?”

Wait, Serana was going too?

“No thank you, father,” Serana said cynically. “I trust your ‘retainers’ as far as I can throw them.” The temerity she said it with made Roë keep utterly quiet, but Harkon merely laughed.

“Indeed. Connivers, the lot of them, with some notable exceptions. Orthjolf and Vingalmo are especially treacherous.” He spoke to both of them when he said, in a low voice, “You would do best to be wary of them. They will surely not welcome your return.”

“I... don’t understand?” Roë dared to ask.

He leaned back on his throne. How the cold stone wasn’t painful to sit on, Roë didn’t know. “Child, Ortholf and Vingalmo are the only ones in this court about whom I can say with certainty that they’d rather sit on this throne themselves. They may look like grovellers, but I did not live for thousands of years to be fooled by their boot-licking. And they will be loathe to see their perceived positions as my right hands compromised.” With a chuckle, he added, “Blood, after all, runs thicker.”

Serana simply looked away.

“Perhaps...” Roë said, not sure why she was saying it, “... Serana could use my services for a little longer.”

She couldn’t read Serana’s face, but Harkon stepped off his throne and spread his arms wide, a broad grin on his face. “Good. I knew you’d change your mind.” Suddenly turning grave, he took Roë by the shoulder, leading her outside, with Serana following. “Remember, you will be travelling with what is the most valuable to me. And I know you will do everything in your power to keep her safe.”

Roë did not misunderstand the warning.

“Speak to Garan Marethi. He can usually be found in the library, or the alchemy laboratory. He will provide the details of your labour.”

“Understood, Lord Harkon.”

“Serve me well, child,” Harkon said finally, pulling her closer like a dear friend, “and all the glory of our kind shall be yours.”

Roë couldn’t possibly imagine anything about ‘this kind’ being even remotely glorious.

Harkon led them both outside, and said, in the doorway, “I have the utmost confidence in your success.” With that, he closed the door.

“I’ll bet he does,” Serana said bitterly. Then, to Roë, “Don’t be fooled by his caring father act. He’s up to something, and he needs us, well... me, to do it.”

“He... does seem to genuinely care for you,” Roë attempted.

Serana’s blazing eyes looked into Roë’s. “Yes, I’m sure he cared for me during those thousands of years I was sealed away somewhere.”

She had a point. But maybe time proceeded differently for him than for others. She’d heard theories that if people could live forever, eventually the years would pass at the speed of a blink. But maybe that was just blatherskite. “Look, let’s just go see that Garan uh...”

“Marethi. Yes, let’s.” She looked back at the double doors. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, though.”

It was strange to see her so heavy-hearted. Seemed her bubbly personality had its limits. Roë didn’t think it’d be good to push the issue, and they went back to the main hall, Serana telling her that, “the alchemy lab is on the west side.”

In the main hall, two Vampires were bickering, exchanging words in loud and aggressive voices, right in the middle of the hall. Roë recognized the two, and remembered Harkon’s words. Ortholf and Vingalmo. The two toadies, the schemers. They weren’t being so subtle about it now.

As soon as they noticed Serana, they fell dead quiet.

“Please,” Serana said with false amiability. “Do carry on, don’t stop your conniving on my account.”

“Lady Serana,” the Nord Vampire immediately apologized, “Forgive us for our... vehemence.”

“We were only in disagreement on how to serve our Lord best,” the Elven Vampire added. By the Aedra, they might as well crawl on their bellies with how thick they laid on the grovelling.

“There’s no need to quarrel,” Serana said, still the embodiment of patient nobility. “Sit, drink. Our Lord will know what is best.”

Bowing almost ludicrously deep, the two sycophants retreated to their seats at the table.

Serana crossed the hall, Roë in tow, to the alchemy laboratory. As they climbed the stairs, they passed the young Vampire they’d seen the day before. She was leaning against the banister, her arms crossed, and looked down at the hall.

When Serana and Roë passed, the young girl said, in her nasal and curiously accented voice, “I wish Orthjolf and Vingalmo would just get it over with and kill each other already. I’m getting tired of listening to them.” Hastily, she added, “Your ladyships.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m already tired of it,” Serana said, climbing the stairs, “and I’ve been here a day.”

The girl chuckled in acknowledgment, then said to Roë, “Oh, Lady Roë?”

“Yes?” Roë tried not to show her surprise at being addressed so formally.

“Lord Harkon suggested you see Hestla, in the armoury. She has clothes more befitting your station.”

“My st...?” Roë asked

“Thank you, Fura,” Serana interrupted her, with kindness but definitively. “For your service.”

“Of course.” She went back to surveying the main hall, and Serana and Roë climbed the last step.

“Is she... making fun of me?” Roë asked quietly when she was sure the girl could no longer hear.

“Fura?” Serana asked, surprised. “No, she doesn’t seem the type from the few chats I had with her while you were under. Why?”

“Just... calling me Lady and all.”

Serana’s clear, beautiful laugh rang out. “No, Roë. She’s being respectful.”

Roë blinked. “But... I’m not a Lady?”

“If you’re ready to look in a mirror, you’ll see that you are now.”

Right. She still had that to look forward to. She’d look terrible, like all these Vampires here. Like death’s heads, skulls with desiccated skin stretched over them. Deep grooves and bloodless colour.

“Oh don’t give me that look,” Serana said with a smile. “Do I look ugly?”

Roë had to admit that no, she did not. She was certainly more beautiful than Roë could ever hope to be. “No, Serana,” she said, wanting to be jealous but only being able to feel her own inadequacy. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh you,” Serana said, only slightly embarrassed. “Anyway, you might get a surprise if you see yourself.” She took a mirror off the wall (didn’t Vampires hate mirrors? Probably another fairytale) and handed it to her. “Go on, take a look.”

Roë took the mirror, a gold-framed thing, as tacky as everything else in this castle. Her fingers didn’t feel how cold it was, because they were equally so. “I... I’m not sure...”

“Go on. Look. You’ll be surprised.”

Roë hoped Serana wasn’t just playing with her, or trying to give her a sharp shock to confront her with her hideous face, or anything of that nature.

“Come on. Trust me.”

Roë closed her eyes. Even taking a deep breath was something which no longer had any meaning, but she did it anyway. Then she held up the mirror and opened her eyes.

What she saw would have taken her breath away if she still had any. She wasn’t the gaunt, monstrous creature she’d expected to be, but still herself, except that her skin was like Serana’s: pale but smooth and free of any wrinkles, scars or birthmarks. And her eyes, Y’ffre, her eyes. They too were like Serana’s now: black orbs set with blazing molten fire.

The mirror slipped from her fingers and clanged into shards on the floor.

A few Vampires briefly turned their heads, but quickly resumed what they were doing. It probably wasn’t the first mirror that had been shattered in this castle.

“My eyes... they...”

Serana nodded, with what looked like a hint of pride in her face. “It’s the gift from my father. You’re not just any Vampire now. You’re... a noble Vampire, is the best way to put it. One of two.”

“You mean three?” Roë asked, getting her faculties back.

“No,” Serana said. “Only two Vampires have the power you have. You and my father.”

“So what’s... different?”

“The thing my father became? When he bestowed his gift on you? I can’t change into that. Never wanted that power either.”

Wait, what was she saying? “Serana, do you mean...?”

“Yes. You can. Harkon is the Vampire Lord. And now you are the Vampire Lady.”

Wait, did that mean... “I’m not supposed to marry him, am I?”

“No, no. _Technically_ ,” Serana added, “you’re slightly above me in station.” With a grin, she clarified, “but only slightly. And only technically. And I’d be really miffed if you acted the part.”

There wasn’t a hair on Roë’s head that thought about acting all superior to Serana. To her, Serana was still the high-born noble lady, and she was just... some worthless dreg from the Guard. “Don’t worry, I’m fully aware of what I am.”

“What you are,” Serana said dead seriously, taking her by the shoulders, “is a kind, pure-hearted person. Who cares which womb you were plopped out of? And I’ll tell you something else. What you are, is _special_. Don’t you ever doubt that. My father saw it, and I see it. You’re not just a nobody who was in the right place, at the right time. My father may be manipulative and overbearing, but believe me, if he sees potential in you, _it’s there_.”

“But – ”

“Don’t think for a second,” Serana went on, her eyes still locked with Roë’s, “that my father would have given you his gift if he hadn’t seen the same thing I see. He would just have thanked you and sent you on your way. At best.”

What was she talking about? “What potential? I’m just a girl from the Guard. A faceless uniform.”

“No, Roë,” Serana said, gentler now. “That’s what you _were_. What you are right now, is the only person I _know_ I can trust. The only person who wouldn’t abuse the power you have.”

“Well, I don’t much care about the power.” Carefully, and seriously nervous, she said, “But I do care about you.”

She did. It was scary to realize, but it did gave her a small sliver of good feeling. She was still able to care about someone. And she really did care about this charismatic and impossibly beautiful person, who had every bit of the magnetism and people skills her father had, but who didn’t use it to get her way, who didn’t turn every conversation into a game of wits.

She dreaded the answer.

Thankfully, Serana smiled and said, “I’ve come to appreciate you too, Roë.” Come to appreciate. It wasn’t _bad_ , but part of her had hoped for a complete reciprocation of the feeling. Because she needed to be cared about right now. But maybe that was just Serana’s way of talking. Must be. “And I’m sure we’ll work very well together.”

“Well, if I’ll be your bodyguard, will you be my long lost pal?” She joked.

Serana smiled warmly. “I already know I’ll consider you a friend, given enough time. Come on, let’s go see Garan Marethi. He’s the alchemist of the castle. My father says he’s adequately trustworthy.”

“It must be a sad life if you have to constantly rank the people around you in terms of trustworthiness.”

Serana nodded as they walked to the west wing. “Which is why I don’t aspire to such lofty heights.”

“M-hm,” Roë said, adding an expression from her homeland. “High trees catch a lot of wind.”

“Well put.”

“Lady Serana, Lady Roë,” a Dunmer Vampire greeted them when they came into the alchemy laboratory. It wasn’t really a laboratory as such, more an abattoir. The body of a troll lay on a long wooden table, cut open, the insides stuck in jars and neatly labelled. Like every other room in the castle, the laboratory was lit by candles and torches, which the Vampires all used for lighting even though fire was far from their best friend. It was also ‘beautified’ with brightly coloured rugs and gold and silver decorations on the tables and cupboards. The colours were sharp, but it was apparently what the Vampires did to make the place at least a bit colourful. Roë didn’t think it helped.

“Hello Garan,” Serana said back. “Lord Harkon said to see you concerning the Bloodstone Chalice?”

The Dunmer was tall and gaunt, with a rust-coloured goatee and hair of the same colour tied into a tail on top of his head. The colour of his hair contrasted strangely with his ashen skin. Unlike Serana and Roë, and like the other Vampires here, he bore the monstrous aspect of Vampirism, sallow cheeks and stretched, leathery skin. “Indeed. I shall have to fetch it. Shall we?”

Serana nodded and the Dunmer Vampire took them back into the main hall, where they came across Orthjolf and Vingalmo, once again bickering, though quietly this time. When they noticed the other Vampire taking Serana and Roë somewhere, they immediately fixed their eyes upon him.

“Oh dear,” Serana said quietly. “They probably have objections.”

“So?” Roë said back. “Aren’t you, well, you know?”

“Yes. But that just makes them hate me... well, us now, even more. They won’t openly move against us, but... well.”

“Right.”

Orthjolf and Vingalmo, indeed, approached and came to stand in front of Garan Marethi.

“Excuse us,” the Dunmer said, irritated by the obstruction.

“Care to tell us where you’re leading our noble lady, Garan?” Vingalmo demanded to know. Roë didn’t miss the singular use of the word ‘lady’.

“I need to fetch the Bloodstone Chalice. Now can you just – ”

Both Orthjolf and Vingalmo looked extremely interested. “Is that so?” Orthjolf asked. “The Chalice? Why?”

“What are you up to, Garan?” Vingalmo added. It seemed terribly respectless of them to confront the escort of their nobles so boldly, but Serana said nothing and let it play out.

“Calm yourself,” Marethi simply said, not impressed. “It’s nothing you should worry about. Lord Harkon’s orders. Lady Serana and Lady Roë intend to fill the Chalice.”

“Is that so?” Vingalmo asked, taking such a keen interest that it simply couldn’t be anything else than suspicious.

“Yes, Vingalmo,” Garan confirmed. “Our ladyships are off to Redwater Den.”

“I see,” Orthjolf said with a faint grin. “Do be careful, my ladies.”

“Indeed,” Vingalmo echoed the sentiment. “Best of luck.”

They bowed simultaneously, as if rehearsed. It seemed Serana was right. These two would put their petty rivalry aside to sabotage the, to them unwelcome, new players.

As they walked back to their seats, Serana said, “You know, they might as well just have said ‘and we will totally, certainly, absolutely stab you in the back’.”

“Yes,” Roë agreed. “They might be good at politics, but they’re so transparent it’s comical.”

“Forgive me, my ladies,” Garan said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have – ”

“No, no,” Serana assured him. “It’s good they know where we’re going. If they’re going to pull a rotten trick on us, better that we know when and where.”

“I see.” Marethi didn’t say anything more about it, probably because he knew how relieved he should be that his loose lips didn’t get him into more trouble. “This way, if you please?”

Set in a niche in the far wall of the main hall, a chalice was set on a pedestal. It was larger than a regular drinking utensil, and looked to be made of dark gray granite, set with a pattern of jutting spikes and tips, even the rim. It was impressive, but didn’t look very functional. The pedestal and the chalice upon it were secured by a portcullis.

“This is it,” Garan announced. “The Bloodstone Chalice.”

“Lord Harkon said it had to be filled with something special?” Serana inquired as the Dunmer fished in his pockets for the key to the mechanism.

“Indeed,” he said, still checking his pockets. He finally produced a ring of small keys, and inserted one in the keyhole next to the portcullis. One turn and the gate clanged up, giving access to the chalice. “It requires water from a place called Redwater Den.”

“As we heard when you told Ortholf and Vingalmo,” Roë couldn’t resist pointing out.

“Eh... Indeed,” the Dunmer said, clearly embarrassed. “Deep in Redwater Den, you’ll find the Bloodspring. It requires water from the spring. Once that’s done, the blood of a powerful Vampire must be added to it.”

“Define powerful?” Serana inquired.

“Any non-brute should do,” Marethi answered. “The Lore is somewhat vague.”

“Well, we’ll see about that when we’re back,” Serana said.

“Very well. I must warn you though...” Marethi said, wringing his hands. “Redwater Den isn’t exactly populated by... the more reputable members of human society.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Roë said. The power coursing through her veins told her she knew she could handle any humans in the way. Humans. No longer like her.

“I’m certain you will be,” the Dunmer said with a shallow bow. “Now if I may be excused? The troll cadaver will stink up the castle if I don’t get rid of it quickly.”

“Of course,” Serana said. “Thank you Garan. We’ll figure out what to do with the blood. We’ll give some of ours if necessary.”

“Speaking of which,” Roë said, “I... think I’m getting...”

“Not now,” Serana said, gentle but clear. “Let us not keep you from your troll, Garan.”

Another curt bow, and the Dunmer walked off.

Serana turned to Roë. “Hungry? Sorry to quiet you, but better not mention it in front of the others.”

Roë had postponed it as long as she could, the need to admit she was starving. She knew what she needed but hated that she needed it. “I think I need... yes.”

“We have thralls in the dungeon for easy feeding, but... I don’t know if you’re ready to feed from a human yet. You might lose control and go too far. Even though they’re thralls, you might still kill them during feeding, and well, I already told you why that might be bad.”

“Right.”

“Don’t worry, I know what to do.” She turned back towards the main hall and asked a Redguard Vampire, “Namasur? Do you still have some bottled blood?”

The Vampire rose and bowed. “Certainly, Lady Serana.” He strode off towards the kitchens and came back with a pouch that held vials of red liquid. Pride was unmistakable on his face when he held the bag out to Serana and said, “There’s plenty for all.”

“Thank you Namasur.” She turned back to Roë and informed her, “Namasur even keeps the blood at temperature to make it feel more... like the real thing.”

Roë held up a vial of the clotted red liquid, and even though her stomach should have turned at the sight, she unstoppered it and knocked back the entire vial, the warm, sticky blood gulping down her throat as she swallowed over and over. She didn’t even speak when she took the other vial Serana held out and emptied it the same way, disgusted with herself but unable to stop.

The blood spread through her body like a warm, soothing flush, and then the moment of bliss was gone again.

Serana stood grinning at her. “Wait ‘til you feed off a live victim. Namasur’s blood is excellently prepared, but there’s nothing like a pumping, living artery.”

“I must admit,” the Redguard said, “Lady Serana speaks the truth. Nothing can compare to a living victim.”

Roë figured that was why it was so dangerous at first. If this already gave such a rush, imagine what living blood might do. The tip of her tongue caressed her incisors without her realizing, but Namasur picked up on it, laughing loudly. “See? The very thought of it is stimulating.”

They thanked the Redguard for the vials, taking a few with them after he insisted, saying it was ‘for the road’.

The night was nearing its end, Roë realized as she saw the slivers of dawn’s light fall in through the windows. The journey to Redwater Den would have to wait.

Roë refused to sleep in a coffin, despite Serana’s facetious insistence and repeated joking insults as to her stage of infancy, just lying down on an old canopy bed in the corner of one of the old, dusty rooms no one ever used. Serana placed a blood vial on the night stand, “in case you get hungry.” Briefly, she had the urge to ask Serana to keep her company, but she didn’t. Serana had simply said she’d come to wake her in the evening and wished her a calm sleep, then left.

Despite all the melancholy and sadness whirling around in her head now that she was alone again and no longer distracted by people talking to her, her eyelids fell closed and she drifted into sleep, dreamless, as it would be for the rest of eternity.

* * *

The first thing she saw was Serana, sitting on the bed and looking down on her. The first thing she felt was emptiness. Another day in unlife.

“Hey there,” Serana said gently. “It’s a lovely night tonight. Lots of snow and ice.”

“Great,” Roë groaned. Oh how she missed that feeling, that urge to turn roll over one more time, wrap herself in the blankets and enjoy that state between waking and sleep. There was none of that now. Just _pop!_ , awake.

Serana held up the vial, empty except a few red dots of blood. “Good thing I put this here.”

Roë didn’t even remember gulping it down during the day, but she must have.

“Come on, fearless bodyguard. Let’s go make my father proud.”

Roë doubted that any bodyguard could protect Serana better than she could protect herself. “Right. I’m ready. I guess.”

They passed by a Vampire named Hestla, as Lord Harkon had suggested, and the Nord armourer took her measurements, telling her she’d have some better protection ready for her in a few days. She was helpful, if a bit sour.

Orthjolf and Vingalmo were nowhere to be seen when they left, but Garan, Namasur and Fura did wish them good luck, as did the Vampire who’d first fetched Lord Harkon when they’d walked in the first time. Modhna, Roë believed her name was. They all acted with clear deference toward them, but it didn’t feel insincere. Then again, traitors and backstabbers always _seemed_ sincere.

As they left, Serana imparted another piece of advice. “By the way, Roë?”

“Mm?”

“You look almost completely human now, and while you’re like this, humans can’t even see your eyes, apart from getting a vague sensation that something’s wrong. But if you ever want to terrify a human, or a group of humans, you can always let the illusion fall and return to the look you had before. You know, the monstrous look.”

“You mean... this is an illusion?”

“No,” Serana said, weighing her words. “Not really an illusion. Just... another aspect.”

Roë didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to feel sad that this regal exterior was just a façade. She was too tired to grieve over it.

They took the boat back to the mainland, this time both of them rowing, and from there to Redwater Den, in the Southeast of Skyrim. It was a long trek, and they had to stop and rest several times, feeding off animals to keep their strength up. Serana insisted it was too dangerous, and that she’d show solidarity by not feeding on human blood. The animal blood sustained them, but it didn’t give the rush that human blood did. Roë, despite herself, felt more and more anxious to know what it felt like. During the walks, Serana imparted all the advice she could, about Vampires, about Castle Volkihar and the inhabitants she’d shallowly gotten to know. At a certain moment, when they were walking in the faint light of dusk, after rising from their sleep in a cave, the conversation wandered to the spread of Vampirism and how it was passed on.

“Serana. Who made you a Vampire? Your father?”

Serana hesitated to answer. “In a way, yes.”

She usually wasn’t so evasive, giving answers to all Roë’s questions without inhibition, but when this topic came up, it seemed she didn’t want to disclose much. Still, Roë asked, “In a way?”

“Yes. He didn’t claw or bite me, or otherwise infect me, but... it involved a ritual. Molag Bal was involved.”

“Molag Bal? Like, the Daedric Prince?”

“Yes,” Serana said, stopping and setting her blazing eyes on Roë. “The Daedric prince of domination and enslavement. The King of Rape. _That_ Molag Bal. So you can imagine the ritual wasn’t really... a suitable topic for the dinner table.”

The memory looked like it summoned immense pain, Serana’s good cheer gone, replaced by a tormented expression. “Was it... I mean... did it...” Roë cursed her own fumbling.

“It was degrading,” Serana said curtly, her eyes flashing. Her lower lip trembled, in anger or grief, Roë couldn’t say. “Beyond degrading. And that’s all you need to know. And before you try, let me make it clear that you are _not_ allowed to ask any further.”

“I’m sorry,” Roë immediately apologized, distraught at seeing her friend in such pain. “I didn’t mean to – ”

“I don’t care what you meant to do. Just... don’t ever mention it, or ask about it again, got that?”

“I... yes. Sorry.”

Serana sighed, realizing she’d been undeservedly rotten. “Look, Roë. I know you mean well, but not everything needs to be talked about. Some things just need to be... pushed deep down. So deep they can never surface again.”

Roë knew it was stupid thing to say while she said it. “I’d... really like to hold you.”

A feeble smile was all she got. “I don’t need to be held. But thanks for the offer.”

Roë swallowed a remark that maybe it wasn’t about what Serana needed, and just said, “Alright. But if... well, I’m here for you, okay?” It sounded so disgustingly clichéd and sappy.

“I know. Let’s move on.”

On they moved, further southwest, to warmer climes which made the night feel a little less like an unending torrent of ice cold needles, until at last, they stood in front of a run-down hunting shack, Roë looking over Serana’s shoulder at the map she held. “This is it. Pretty sure.”

“This?” Roë asked. It was hard to believe. Nestled against the mountain ridge stood a collection of wooden planks, which could, with a lot of effort, be called a ruined hut. Weeds crept up against the crooked and rotten planks, and a big web of dry rot had crawled across the side wall, looking utterly repulsive as dry rot always did. Even in the pale pre-dawn light, the dry rot looked a deep rust coloured red, like tendrils of putrefied blood. “It’s a dump.”

“It is,” Serana said, her eyes mischievous. “But you and your keen Bosmer sense navigated, so it’s only your own map-reading that you’re drawing into question right now.”

“Hmph. Well in that case, I’m absolutely, one hundred percent certain that this is the place.”

“And you’re probably right. Look, over there.” Serana pointed at the side of the shack. Half-buried in the weeds sat a dozing sentry, wearing only dirty breeches, his back to the rock wall. Even from the distance they were at, Roë could clearly see his emaciated frame and the dark rings around his eyes. She’d seen that look before, when she’d been part of a squad sent to crack down on a skooma smuggling ring, back in the Guard. This was a user, the open sores on his gaunt ribcage told her enough.

“Looks like a user,” Roë said to Serana. “This is probably a skooma den.”

“A what?”

Roë looked back at Serana. “Skooma den? You know, a place where people drop skooma and then spend a few hours with their heads in the clouds?” Then she remembered Serana had been in stasis for so many years. “Wait, there probably wasn’t a thing like skooma back in your day, was there?”

“I... don’t know. There were addictive substances, this one probably just had a different name.”

“Yes, well. Is it alright if I take the lead on this? This... isn’t the first magical fairy land I go inside.”

Serana grinned. “Weren’t shy of a few scoops of powder back in the day, were you?”

“Tch, _no_ ,” Roë replied, annoyed. “I took down a few rings, back when I was in the Guard.” With a sigh, she added, “so long ago.” She’d give anything to be back there now, walking pointless patrols and being stuck in the squad chief position, without any opportunity for promotion. At least she walked those pointless beats in the sun.

“The lead’s all yours, fearless bodyguard.”

“That’s _lady_ fearless bodyguard to you.”

Serana grinned. “What did I say about being well miffed if you pulled rank?”

“Your fault for being sarcastic. Alright, I’ll go see about getting us inside. Maybe it’s best if you wait out of sight?”

“Sure. Might want to hide that shortsword on your belt though. The one with the emblem of the Guard?”

“No, no. I’ve got a plan.”

Roë walked up to the dozing sentry. He was far away in dreamland, because he didn’t even wake when she was two metres away. “Oi,” Roë called out, startling the skooma-hound awake. He fumbled for his spear and when he’d gotten hold of it, he got to his feet, standing in front of her, his legs wide and his spear raised.

“What do you want?”

Roë crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think I want?”

“I... don’t know,” the man stammered. He even had sores on his head, visible through his short-shaven hair. “I’m just a hunter, living uh... on my own out here.”

“Look, let’s not make this more embarrassing that it already is. I’m looking to buy.”

“Buy... buy what?”

Ugh, these guys were always so stupidly tight-lipped and evasive. “I thought I said I didn’t want this to get more embarrassing? Skooma. I want to buy skooma.”

“I... I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” the man kept denying. Roë saw his eyes go to the hilt of her shortsword. Good, let him see it. All part of the plan.

“Look, I’m telling you again, cut the theatrics. I’m looking to buy skooma, so let me inside to talk to the seller.”

“You’re fuckin’ stupid if you think I’m letting you in. You’re from the Guard. I don’t know which one, but that’s a Guard emblem right there.” His eyes went to her sword.

“Yes, so? Don’t tell me you never deal with the Guard. The only reason you people operate is because we _let_ you.”

“How... how do I know you’re not just going to arrest me?”

Roë rolled her eyes. “Because I’m not here with a small army, you dimwit. Now what’s it going to be? Are you going to let me in, or do I have to shove that spear up your ass and explain to your boss that you tried to stop him from earning piles of gold?”

That did the trick. The sentry looked uncertain for a moment, then caved. “Fine. But one wrong move and I – ”

“Yeah, yeah. Got the buyer with me.”

“Uh... sure. Whatever.”

She turned and motioned for Serana to come over. When she did so, Roë repeated, loudly enough, “This is the buyer. You don’t insult her by talking to her directly. You talk to me, and me alone. That clear?”

The man made an irritated face, as if he was angry at being woken up. “Shyeah, sure man.”

With that, he led them inside, opening the door, that nearly fell out of its hinges, with a key that looked like it was made during Serana’s time period. They probably could have broken down the door with a single finger, but this was preferable. The sentry was a worthless wretch of a man, but that didn’t mean that dull rusty spear couldn’t find its way to someone’s sternum. She’d learned that very well in the Guard. Cocky young Guardsmen just out of training, thinking they’d teach some petty criminal wretch some manners, because what danger was a skooma-addled sod armed with only a rusty hunting knife? They didn’t understand that an enemy with nothing to lose was the most dangerous one of all, and no amount of bravado could protect you against a knife in the kidneys. One of them, a young lad, had even been stabbed by a beggar who’d used an old arrow as a weapon, sticking him in the bowels. The infection hadn’t killed him, but from then on, everyone heard him moan in agony every time he sat on the shitter.

So no, this was much safer. They could always see what had to be done once they were inside.

“Weapons sheathed, man,” the sentry said. “No trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roë would have no trouble unsheathing her weapon fast enough if she did want to cause trouble, and the crossbow on her back would be ready even faster. As for Serana, Roë suspected she didn’t even need a weapon to send the inhabitants of this entire den to skooma heaven.

The sentry led them down a hatch and through the den, and it looked every bit as bad as the ones Roë had seen before. Addicts lay on cots, groaning or mumbling to themselves, knocked off their feet on skooma. Some had expressions of utter bliss, but most, the ones with the biggest sores, bore faces of agony. As if their drug hurt them more than it gave them relief. Which it probably did. Roë had to look away when she saw a bare-breasted Breton girl lying completely sedated, with a three-year-old child cradled in her arm.

They walked the gauntlet of misery in silence and were brought before a woman who sat behind a counter, locked and gated. There was only a small slit through which product and gold could be transferred. She had half a mind to just shove the business end of the sword through the slit, but they had to be cautious. These places were usually well guarded, even though there were no guards in sight.

The dealer was Dunmer from the looks of her, her hair worn up in two messy, tied-together braids. Despite the whore-like clothing she wore, she didn’t look like a user. There were no sores, no dark rings around the eyes. It made sense. Never get high on your own supply.

“What do you want?” the woman grunted, setting aside the stack of septims she was about to weigh. Behind her was a bowl filled with skooma... but it had an odd red colour, not the crystal white it usually had. This probably had to do with the liquid from the spring inside the cave that Garan Marethi had spoken of. This scum had actually built a skooma den on top of the Bloodspring.

“What do you think?” Roë said back. “Buy, of course.”

“How much?”

“Well,” Roë said, “We’d have to see how your product is made, first.” It would be a good opportunity to get to the Bloodspring.

“Out of the question.” Oh. There went that plan.

Still, Roë insisted, “They told me this red stuff was good, but I’m not passing it to our buyer here unless I know what’s in it.”

“Are you deaf?” the dealer snapped. “Buy or get your well-groomed asses out of here.”

In a way, the dealer gave Roë what she wanted. Without another word, she drew her sword and stuck it through the slit, impaling the dealer, cracking her sternum and puncturing her lungs and heart. Nailed against the cupboards behind her, the dealer opened her mouth, gasping for breath, and then her eyes glassed over. As she saw the woman die, Roë realized this was the better outcome. For all the lives this wretch had ruined.

“H... hey now,” the sentry shouted, but before he could bring his spear to bear, Serana made a swift, almost nonchalant movement with her hand, and the air around her fingers coalesced into a viciously sharp icicle, which flashed towards him, striking him in the shoulder, tearing the flesh open and severing the tendons, blood spraying against the far wall as the icicle followed through and shattered.

“Out,” Serana simply said, pointing toward the exit. The sentry, thankfully for him, nodded his head with a sullen expression, his right arm cradling his right, and lurched to the exit.

“That was humane,” Roë remarked.

“He’s a victim as much as anyone here,” Serana said, sweeping her hand over the addicts.

“Unlike this one,” Roë spat as she looked back at the dealer, now slumped to the ground in a pool of blood, her dead face still surprised. The sight made her body scream with hunger, so she went around the booth, cracked open the lock with her sword, and dragged the body out, sinking her teeth into it to slurp out the last cooling mouthfuls, crushing the larynx between her teeth. She closed her eyes, feeling the tiny wave of euhopria and swallowed.

In a way, they were no different from the addicts here. Always chasing the next rush.

“There’s some blood on the walls you can lick off?” Serana said with a grin, pointing to the spatter made when the ice bolt had torn the sentry’s shoulder open.

“No thanks,” Roë said, wiping her chin. “Addict blood. I bet it’s tainted to the point of poisonous.”

“Probably,” Serana muttered. “Though there are Vampires who explicitly chase addicts and only feed off them. The rush of living blood isn’t enough for them.”

“That... sounds disgusting.”

“It is. Now, to the spring. I’ll bet it’s past this locked door.”

Roë was already going through the pockets of the dealer, and fished out a small key. She held it out to Serana, who took it, and then loaded her pockets with gold. When Serana gave her a questioning look, she said, “Hey, your father has to pay for his tacky furniture somehow, right?”

Serana snickered, then opened the door. “This goes further down. Best stay quiet.”

They crept forward, down a narrow hewn staircase, and at the end, they found themselves on a circular balcony overlooking a large cave room. Two figures stood in the middle, one tall and regal, the other hunched and submissive. They threw long shadows, standing next to an illuminated spring that had red water bubbling up inside of it.

“Lord Venarus,” the smaller figure asked, “With your permission, I would add slightly less of the spring to the skooma. It seems to have gained a bit in potency.”

“Ugh,” the taller figure grunted. “I wish we could depend on this damn spring not to fluctuate all the time.”

“So would I, Lord Venarus.”

“Very well, go ahead. Too much and the skooma turns bad anyway.”

“My lord,” the servant asked meekly. “It... seems somewhat strange to me that you don’t simply drink the water?”

The tall man shrugged and said, “It’s not actual blood. Looks like it, but it isn’t. It gives people who drink it a powerful rush, but it also gets you pretty messed up. It’s some kind of profaned spring, apparently. That’s why we’re putting it in the skooma.”

“Ah.”

“So go ahead, take the spring water ratio down a notch. Not too little though, we don’t want to end up with weak skooma.”

“Certainly, lord.”

“Now then, I must return topside. It’s calm at this hour, but that doesn’t mean I should leave our dealer unguarded.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“He’s coming up,” Serana whispered. “He’s a Vampire. Powerful one too. We have to surprise him.”

Roë said nothing, simply took her crossbow off her back.

The Vampire called Venarus strode up the stairs, a quarter away from them, to ascend to their balcony. Roë kept her crossbow ready, and when he had reached the apex of the stairs, she popped up from behind the balustrade and shot.

The Vampire reacted with extreme reflexes, jerking his torso out of the way so the bolt harmlessly impaled his shoulder.

“Cack!” Roë growled, lowering the weapon and sliding another bolt out of the quiver at her side.

“No time,” Serana shouted, launching herself forward, another ice knife forming around her fingers. She launched it, but again the other Vampire dodged the attack, and this time it was he who went on the offensive, lunging at Serana and catching her by the throat in mid-air, his speed and power reversing her direction and sending her smacking into the ground on her back, her attacker on top of her.

Roë charged them both, but before she could reach them, a small, spindly creature struck her in the side, knocking her over. She kicked the thrall off her and scrambled to her feet, towards Serana who was still pinned under her attacker, and who was about to get her heart punctured by the sharp knife the other Vampire held up.

Roë launched herself at the Vampire, crashing into him and knocking him off balance, though Serana remained trapped under him. She got a hard kick to the jaw as Venarus tried to keep her back, but she raised her short sword, ready to stab the boss of the skooma den in the back, through the ribs, and into the heart.

An enormous pain exploded in her abdomen, paralyzing her in mid-movement. Looking down, she saw a sharp blade protruding from her gut, and as she looked on, it was pulled back out and it came through again, and went out and came out again, its bloody end tearing away a flap of her leather armour, and Roë looked on as several loops of her bowels fell out, swollen ropes of bright red and purple, shot through with thick red veins. She stood hunched over, her mouth wide open, her guts dangling out between her legs.

The tip of the blade disappeared again, but an icicle flew past her ear, there was a wet thud followed by a tapered gurgle, and the knife didn’t come back.

Though her muscles still worked fine, Roë still fell flat on her ass, in pure shock at what she saw, her insides in her lap.

“Roë?” Serana’s face appeared before her. “Roë, can you hear me?”

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. There was so much pain, and especially, so much shock at seeing her own insides falling out of her.

Looking on as a spectator, she saw Serana’s face turn away, and suddenly a sack of ice cold skin was pressed against her mouth. “Drink.”

Though Roë no longer had control over her actions, her vampiric instincts took over and she set her teeth into the throat of the dead Vampire, robotically drinking up the cold blood. As she did so, she could feel even more pain as Serana’s fingertips picked up her wet, bloody guts and simply pushed them back in, stuffing them back inside through the bloody window in her abdomen.

On she drank, and she could feel the pain slowly lessen, and the skin and muscle of her abdomen knit together. When the Vampire was completely drained, her teeth let go of the throat between them, and she fell back.

Again Serana’s face appeared, above her this time. “Got a bit of a scare, did you?”

“Yuh... yuh... yes.”

“I can imagine,” she said cheerfully, still hanging over her. “Not every day that you see your own plumbing like that. Don’t worry though. You’re healing just fine. It gets easier, but the first time you’re really badly injured, you’re all like, ‘what the shit just happened to me huuuh haaah huuuh I’m gonna die!’ and stuff.” She chuckled. “But you’re a Vampire now. You can take a bit of guts tumbling out. Good thing I got this bastard off me in time though. The next one could have gone through your heart and then I’d be stuck without a fearless bodyguard.”

“Ye...h. L... lucky.”

“Oh come on you big baby. It’s healed over already.”

“Who... wh...”

Serana pointed at a dead, skinny man wearing one-piece work suit with the top stripped down and tied together at the waist. “Thralls are pathetic, but they can still stab you in the back if you ignore them.”

“C... cack. Bastard.”

“Indeed. Now come on, let’s full our waterskin and leave this miserable place.” She held out her hand and Roë took it, feeling her senses return. Serana helped her to her feet, and when she looked down at her belly she saw, indeed, that the skin was smooth and immaculate again, despite the torn, bloody flap of leather hanging loose. Without realizing, Roë scooped up the remaining rivulets with her finger and brought it to her mouth, sucking the blood off it. It was weak and made her stomach turn. Right, Serana had said it was pointless to try and drink one’s own blood.

Next to her lay the thrall, a rapidly melting ice knife in his eye socket, while the Vampire lay on the other side, now drained, his own blade rammed through his breastbone.

With a chuckle, Serana said, “Seems he underestimated my disarming personality.”

“Th... that was painful, Serana,” Roë managed to quip.

“I know. I’m here all week!”

As Serana let the waterskin fill with the red water and bubbles popped on its surface, Roë regained her wits and strength, and even though she didn’t believe it, she felt like normal after a few minutes. Well, what passed for normal in this state anyway.

“There we go,” Serana said. “Refreshments for my father’s court.”

“Didn’t we still need to add the blood of an ancient Vampire?”

“We did,” Serana said. “And we had one right here, but since you drained it all,” she grinned, “we’ll have to improvise. We’ll see later. I could always give some of mine, loathe as I am to part with my prime vintage. Or some of yours.”

“Uh... we’ll see.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll give mine if it’s really necess – ”

“Ah, such a shame,” an unfamiliar voice called out from the balcony above.

“Yes, how unfortunate,” another added. It was one male and one female voice. “That little accident you two had here. Lord Harkon’s new favourite, and his uppity cunt of a daughter, dead so soon after joining the family.”

There were two Vampires standing on the balcony, both armed with crossbows trained at Serana and Roë. One, the male, was a Nord with a shortly-clipped beard, the other looked Imperial, with a narrow face and an even narrower mouth.

“But Lord Harkon will be relieved that we were here to take the Chalice back to him,” the Nord Vampire said, his voice dripping with malicious glee. He had a second crossbow on his back, giving them an additional shot in case of a miss. This was bad.

“You’re making a big mistake, Stalf,” Serana warned. “You too, Salonia. Put your weapons down now and we’ll forget this ever happened.” Serana’s cheer was gone, and she now looked positively threatening.

“Ah, sadly, that won’t happen,” the female Vampire laughed. “Vingalmo and Orthjorn were clear: no competition. It’s the end of the line for you.” So that was where it came from. So much for knowing when they’d play their dirty move. Still, Roë hadn’t thought they’d go as far as to actually want to kill them, and she could tell Serana hadn’t either.

“My dear Salonia,” the male said, “To you the honours. Which one do you want?”

“Hm, difficult question. The pretentious mongrel or the snooty daughter. Choices, choices...”

Roë looked around frantically for a way to escape, or an opportunity to reverse the situation, but she didn’t see anything. They were trapped, pinned by an enemy shooting from an elevated position, with no cover. As the drill chief in Roë’s training had told her, an arrow coming from such a position meant you had to consider a new career as a party-snack.

“Are you two insane?” Serana protested. “Do you have any idea what my father will do to you? He’s no fool, he’ll know what you’ve done.”

They simply ignored her, and the female Vampire brought her weapon up. “I think it’ll be the snooty daughter. See how pretty you are with a bolt in your brain. Hold still, I’m about to paint your picture.” She took aim, but her weapon didn’t release. “Agh!” she cursed. “My crossbow’s jammed. Stalf, give me yours.”

Roë knew what was going on, and it would be their salvation, but Stalf clearly didn’t, rolling his eyes and passing the weapon to his associate. And of course, the supposedly jammed weapon promptly went up again, towards Roë and Serana, but Stalf’s mouth fell open when he saw his own weapon aimed square at his heart.

“Go on, Stalf. Put down the crossbow and go and join them. This picture will be much prettier with you in it.”

“This isn’t what we agreed,” Stalf protested. “What are you doing? We’re taking back the Chalice together, that was what we discussed.”

“You fool,” Salonia scoffed. Roë tried to move, but the crossbow in her right hand stayed unerringly locked on her. “You didn’t think I’d let any of you walk out of here, did you? Vingalmo wants you all dead.” She nudged her chin at him. “Take the crossbow off your back, slowly, and put it on the ground.”

“You know, Salonia,” the Nord said, sounding unimpressed. “That’s just fine. Orthjolf told me to get rid of all of you anyway.”

The next moment, everyone came in motion at the same time. Stalf threw himself to the side, and Salonia’s bolt missed him. Roë did the same, and the other bolt clacked on the stone between her and Serana. Darting up the stairs, Roë saw Stalf’s boot shoot out, kicking his former associate square between the legs. An ice knife shattered on the balustrade in front of them. Serana clearly hadn’t had the training Roë had, despite all her power.

Roë took aim and released. The bolt flew mostly true, catching Stalf between the shoulder blades but missing his heart. Serana was still at the foot of the stairs, and Stalf and Salonia quickly agreed, “these two bitches first!”

From his prone position, Stalf took the crossbow off his back and released, Roë diving flat just in time to make it zip over her head. She heard a cry of pain behind her, and when she whipped her head around, she saw Serana go down, clutching her face, blood spurting between her fingers.

She looked back towards Stalf and Salonia, and the next moment, her vision turned red. Unbelievable agony tore through her as she felt herself rear up, spread her arms and _change_. She felt her skin burst off her, her lower jaw break and crunch to become a vicious underbite, and the next moment, she was no longer in contact with the ground, hovering above it like a terrifying death goddess, majestic in her hideous monstrosity.

Through a haze of red, she saw Stalf’s and Salonia’s faces, contorted in terror. Salonia slowly backed away, holding her axe out in front of her, while Stalf scampered back on his backside.

_When you are above the ground, you are at your most powerful. You command deadly and destructive magicks, and you can tilt the earth to its side with your power._

Roë didn’t know where the voice came from, only that it was female, and though sounding like that of a child, it belonged to something or someone many times greater than her. And that it told the truth.

She hooked her right hand into a claw, and the magick came naturally. She pulled Stalf up, first to his feet, and then in the air, drawing him closer, making the energies around him tighten and squeeze, constricting him as he hung suspended, kicking and struggling. She felt her upper lip pull back from her terrible fangs, and tightened the energies further, feeling bones snap and crunch as the worthless mutt who had hurt beautiful Serana was crushed to death. She heard an inhuman roar rise from her throat as she clenched her hand into a fist, and Stalf was flattened even further, blood running from his ears and nose. Roë jerked her fist toward her and the energies wrung, twisting Stalf’s still-screaming body like a towel, contorting it, and in an explosion of blood, bones and muscle, Stalf burst apart from the pressure, his eyes forced out of his skull and right after, everything else in his head, as the ground was showered with the ruin of his internal organs. Through a haze of red, Roë saw them fall, torn blobs of flesh with fragments of vertebrae in between.

Salonia had watched the entire display in horror, and now she fell on her knees, begging for her unlife with words that Roë couldn’t even hear.

_When you are in contact with the ground, your most primal power surfaces. Your claws become scythes of death, tearing your enemies apart, ripping them limb from limb and bathing you in their life-giving blood._

Roë’s clawed feet touched the ground, and enormous power surged through the muscles that bulged on her bones. She felt her claws turning from magickal conduits to pure sharp death. Salonia was still begging, but Roë didn’t hear. She cleared the distance to her prey in two leaps, squashing what was left of Stalf’s insides, and her claws shot out, the first swipe taking off Salonia’s nose and upper lip, tearing the skin and cartilage off and exposing her white upper teeth and nothing else but red. Her other claw followed up, striking her in the side of her face, removing her ear, cheek and one eye, the pressure popping it and turning it into a burst grape of milky white.

Still she sat on her knees, and Roë’s murderous blood rage continued, the next strike tearing open her chest, ripping her clothes and skin away, exposing a bloody rib cage and lifting her off her feet. As she was hoisted into the air, another claw strike came, ripping away her abdominal muscles and tearing out her bowels, sending them flying through the air, over the balcony, and down to the Blood Spring. Salonia squealed like a pig, and her squealing was ended when she reached the apex of her flight and came down again, Roë’s last claw strike hitting her full in the side of the head, the sheer force breaking her vertebrae and tearing the skin, muscle and tendons of her neck, batting the head clean off. Salonia’s body hit the ground, the blood-soaked robe making a wet slap as she came down. The destroyed head thudded down the stairs and rolled halfway to the Blood Spring before coming to rest.

It was done. Roë knew it, and the creature she had become knew it too. Her vision turned black and her world was only pain as the bones broke again, rearranging themselves into shape, and her skin pulled taut, the pressure again shrinking the muscles beneath it.

Cold was the first thing she felt when the pain was gone. Cold air caressing her skin. Her eyes were still closed, and for a moment, she thought she was in a safe place, just her, the outside world no longer existing, only the cold wrapping her in its chilly blanket.

“Roë?”

Serana’s pained voice broke the feeling, and she realized she was in the cave beneath Redwater Den, lying in a pool of blood and guts, and completely naked. She opened her eyes to see the shreds of her clothes lying scattered, torn off her body by her transformation. Her skin was slick with blood.

“Roë, are you alright? I can’t see.”

Painfully, with her vertebrae still crunching, Roë raised her head to look at Serana, sitting on her knees and one hand, the other holding her bleeding face. Between her fingers, the stabilizing feathers of a crossbow bolt stuck out.

“I’m... I’m fine, Serana. Are... are you – ”

“Oh, you’re alright,” Serana breathe. “What a relief. Can you... can you get me some blood? I think... I think I’m blind.”

Roë tried to get up, slipping on the blood-slick stones, managing to get to her feet after a few attempts. Her bones still ached, but the pain was slowly fading. It was only now, when she looked down at her blood-smeared body, that she fully realized she was completely naked. Looking around, she quickly tore Stalf’s cloak off the remains of his shoulders, wrapped it around herself, then tied it with Salonia’s belt. It would serve to guard her modesty until she could get Serana back on her feet. She had spare clothes in her backpack, but the straps had flown off when she’d transformed, and rummaging around in it would take too long.

Dragging Salonia’s carcass to her friend, Roë said, “I’ll be right there, Serana. This one will have some blood left.” She was hungry like a daedroth, but her friend needed it more.

“He got me good, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” was all Roë could say. “Yes, he did.”

“And from... from the sound of snapping bones and t... terrified screaming, I’ll assume you showed them... the power of the Vampire Lord?” Serana still sat there, and though she was obviously in enormous pain, her tone was still very lucid apart from the occasional stammer.

Roë pulled Salonia’s headless body up to Serana’s mouth, but her friend shook her head. “Bolt needs to be out first. Can’t heal when it’s in there.”

“But – ”

Serana didn’t hesitate, simply stating as a trivial fact the words Roë dreaded to hear. “You have to pull.”

“Serana, I can’t – ”

“Come on, you softie. Just wrap your fingers around the handle and pull.”

With a pained face, Roë carefully touched the bolt with her fingertips. “Move your hands.”

Serana did, and Roë’s face became even more agonized when she saw the damage the bolt had done. The thing had gone through one eye, then exited through the opposite temple. The rest of Serana’s face was a bright red mask of blood. “Come on already, unless you want to do like Salonia and paint a picture.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Roë said. Wrapping her fingertips around the bolt, she closed her eyes and pulled.

Serana let out a short scream, and she heard the wet scraping of metal on bloody bone, and then the thing was out. She opened her eyes again and saw Serana sitting on her knees, her hand again over her face.

“Name a Bosmer god,” Serana said simply, her jaw set.

“Wh... what?”

“A Bosmer god,” Serana said again. “Name one.”

“Well, Y’ffre is our main – ”

“Y’ffre’s _balls_ that hurt!” Serana shouted abruptly. Then, more quietly, “Blood please.”

Roë held the stump of Salonia’s neck near her face, and Serana’s hands shot out, grabbing the carcass and letting her fangs sink into the torn flesh.

“Uh, by the way, I don’t know if Y’ffre has balls. We Bosmer can’t even agree whether it’s a male, female or sexless spirit,” Roë pointed out quietly as Serana drank and the sunken space behind her eyelid slowly retook shape.

Serana simply shrugged and drank on. After a few more hard pulls at the cadaver, she dropped it and opened her eyes. They were back to the way they were, full of fire. “Nice get-up,” she said with a grin, looking down at the stained brown cloak wrapped around Roë. “Very... ethnic.”

“Shut up,” Roë grinned back. “It was that or you’d have to spend several more minutes with a crossbow bolt in your face while I ransacked my backpack for my spare clothes.” There were plenty of stories about shapeshifters, like werewolves and whatever, but none of them mentioned the inevitable after-effect of finding yourself back in your own body without any clothes on.

Serana stood up and surveyed the carnage Roë had wrought. She whistled between her teeth and said, “And you were squeamish about pulling a bolt out of my face?”

“Yeah, um... it just happened.”

Serana put her hands in her sides, her eyes still on the slaughter scene. “Well I hope you never get that mad at me.”

“How could I ever?” Roë said. “You’re...” she swallowed the rest of what she was going to say.

“Your armour’s gonna need some new straps,” Serana pointed out when she saw the breastplate lying in the blood pool, split at the joints.

Roë had found her backpack, which had also flown off her when she’d shifted. “Yeah it... didn’t go back to normal like the rest of me.”

Serana turned back to her. “I’ll head upstairs, let you get your clothes on.”

“Alright.”

She went up, and called over her shoulder, “don’t forget to bring the waterskin.”


	31. Falnas: Speaking with Silence

**FALNAS**

**Speaking with Silence**

**The Ragged Flagon, Cistern**

 

“Mercer will be in shortly mate, ‘e’s in a meetin’ with crazy Maven,” Delvin Mallory said to Falnas when he came to the Cistern to report. “Speakin’ of which, I got a meetin’ o’ my own. Wanna come?”

“Sure,” Falnas said. “Who are we meeting?”

Delvin only gave a mysterious smile. “Someone from the competition.”

“I... didn’t know we had competition?”

“We work in the same field, more or less,” Delvin only said. “Except they steal lives, not gold.”

That could only mean one thing. “We’re meeting someone from the Dark Brotherhood? I thought we didn’t associate with them?”

“Most of you don’t,” Delvin said as they walked to a secluded part of the Ragged Flagon. “But... well, let’s just say I walked a darker path ‘fore I signed up ‘ere.” With a chuckle he added, “I cleaned up my act by _joinin’_ the Thieves’ Guild, imagine that.”

Wow. Falnas never would have given it to him, Delvin Mallory, a former hard-as-nails assassin. Then again, there was a lot about his fellow thieves that he didn’t know, and he guessed it was only just as well.

Delvin opened the door and motioned for Falnas to go on. “After you, mate.”

The person standing in the torch-lit room didn’t look like an assassin at all. She looked like she still played with a doll when no one was watching. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Falnas knew the Brotherhood like to recruit them young, but this couldn’t possibly be a full-fledged assassin. The very thought was ridiculous. “She’s from the Brotherhood?” he asked incredulously. “This slip of a girl?”

The slip of a girl in question crossed her arms and gave him an almost-furious look, her eyebrows knotted beneath her straight-cut fringe, transforming her admittedly adequately pretty face into an angry mask.

“What’d you expect then mate?” Delvin asked, sounding slightly annoyed himself. “Some dark elf with a cowl, white hair an’ two scimitars? That’s how you all think an assassin looks like don’t you? Well let me tell you summat. This ‘slip of a girl’ is ten times more likely to get ‘er mark than any cowled showman with two black swords an’ a whole list of ‘tragic powers’.”

The girl just stood looking at him silently, her arms still crossed, still glaring.

“An’ you know why?” Delvin continued his lecture. Falnas realized he’d kicked over a bowl of worms, and now he had to face the consequences, in this case being schooled by Delvin. “Because this girl don’t _look_ like an assassin, mate. The best assassin is the one you don’t suspect. Give ‘er a frock an’ some flowers in ‘er ‘air, an’ no one suspects a thing.”

The girl gave him a pedantic nod, as if to say, _see?_

“Alright, alright,” Falnas said, raising his hands. “I apologize. I’ll uh... let Delvin do the talking.”

“Best, mate,” Delvin said, his irritation gone, replaced by mild amusement at Falnas’ misstep. “So, you’ve come to us with word from Astrid, do you?”

The girl smiled faintly and nodded.

“How is our lovely Astrid? Still an arse like a pair of juicy peaches, squeezed into ‘er tight leather breeches?”

Despite not being able to answer that question with personal input for obvious reasons, the girl still looked somewhat amused by it, and the silly rhyme. She still hadn’t said a word though.

“Forgive me if I seem ignorant,” Falnas said, taking his lessons from the first gaffe, “but do Brotherhood members take vows of silence?”

The girl didn’t seem angry at him anymore, she just shook her head, then drew her hand across her throat.

“Oh,” Falnas simply said. “I see.” Seemed this one was a mute. Well, he supposed it’d work for not blabbing secrets.

The girl took a sealed letter from her pouch and handed it to Delvin, who read it intently.

“Pleased to meet you, Siari,” Delvin said as he read, without looking up from the paper. The girl smiled and nodded a greeting back at him even though he didn’t see.

“Pleased to meet you too,” Falnas said. The girl was less friendly to him, but still polite, nodding at him too even as her smile faded. “You already know Delvin, and I’m Falnas.”

“So Astrid wants the enclosed amulet verified for value,” Delvin said, folding the letter again, then fishing in the envelope, taking out a small, but magnificent-looking jewelled amulet, the pendant shaped like a diamond, but made of gold and set with precious stones. Delvin whistled between his teeth, clearly impressed. “I actually know that piece.” He looked back at the young assassin. “I’ll take it off your ‘ands right now, if you want. Spare you a trip to the antiquary. It’s more than worth the price Astrid hopes I’ll estimate it for.”

The girl smiled and nodded again, her face saying _that would be nice_. Falnas already regretted being so scoffing towards her in the beginning.

“I’ll write out a letter of credit for it. Should work just fine for Astrid.” He paused, then looked up from the amulet. “She still with that hairy oaf?”

The girl’s face answered affirmatively.

Delvin simply let out a frustrated snort. “Only thing I could possibly consider a negative point of Astrid is ‘er taste in men.” He handed Siari the assassin her letter back. “Where’d you get this am – ” he began, but he interrupted himself. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” He bent over a table, scribbled some words on a paper and handed that, too, to the assassin. “Letter o’ credit, lass. Astrid knows I’m good for it.”

The girl seemed satisfied, making a shallow bow as thanks, turned, and departed through the other door, where a young initiate stood by to lead her back to the surface.

“I don’t know what the Brotherhood’s up to,” Delvin silently confided to Falnas, “but that amulet... ain’t just any old trinket.”

“How so?” Falnas asked. It clearly wasn’t judging from Delvin’s face when he’d taken it out of the envelope.

“That’s an amulet from the Elder Council, specially hand-crafted for every member. Worth a small fuckin’ fortune. Ain’t summat you give up lightly.” He set his jaw, then continued, “Not my place to tell the Brotherhood their business, but if they’ve killed a Council member, they’re about to... let’s say, live in very interestin’ times.”

Falnas shrugged as they walked. “Their problem, right?”

“S’pose. ‘Ere’s Mercer. Bet ‘e’s anxious for your report.”

Indeed he was, and with Brynjolf joining them at Mercer’s counter, Falnas told him what he’d learned from his trip to Gulum-Ei.

“Karliah,” Mercer growled when he heard the name, leaning on his counter with his elbows. “Karliah!” Louder this time, full of anger. “Fucking Karliah!”

“We have to finish this, Mercer,” Brynjolf said, much calmer than his leader. “She’s got her sights on you, and she won’t stop until you’re dead. You know that.”

“Oh believe me, I do,” Mercer grunted, stroking his horseshoe moustache with his fingers, deep in thought.

Mercer had instantly recognized the name, and while he’d tried to keep a straight face, he’d clearly failed. Whoever this Karliah woman was, she’d murdered the previous Guildmaster, and now she was coming for the present one. But Falnas didn’t think Mercer would just lie down and die. No, the man was too much of a tenacious asshole for that. He was formulating a plan right now, Falnas had knew that right away.

“Where did you say she was?” Mercer asked Falnas.

He repeated Gulum-Ei’s words. “Where the end began.”

A grin dawned on Mercer’s face. “I know where it is.”

It was there that Falnas found himself now, with Mercer Frey. The Guildmaster had ordered him to come along, and watch his back, to Falnas’ surprise. The trip itself had been silent and terribly awkward, but at least his travel partner had been silent and brooding rather than the domineering rank-puller he usually was.

Snow Veil Sanctum, the place was called. Very mellifluous, but it was just a stone door set in a mountain wall.

“Karliah’s definitely inside,” Mercer grunted, pointing at the horse tied to a tree a ways further, a magnificent dark grey roan with a clearly Dunmer-influenced saddle. “Let’s get moving, I want to catch her off guard.” Then he took out his one of his throwing knives, lifted it above his shoulder, and with a powerful throw, pierced the horse straight through the jugular. The animal kicked and whinnied, and slowly went down as Falnas looked on with his jaw slack. “She won’t be using it to escape,” Mercer simply said.

“Did you have to kill that horse?” Falnas hissed at him, distraught at this needless killing of an innocent animal. “What’s it ever done to you?”

“I’m sorry,” Mercer said back, bringing his nose closer to Falnas’, “I was under the impression that _I_ was in charge. If she gets away, using that horse, she’ll know we’ve found her and she’ll go into hiding again. And then she’ll bring down the entire Thieves’ Guild, because you better believe we’ll never be so lucky as to catch her again.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just kill an innocent horse.”

“I can, and I _did_. Now do you want to make something of it?” Mercer growled, his hands on the hilts of his sword and main-gauche.

From what Falnas had heard from Brynjolf and Delvin, Mercer was nothing short of lethal with a blade, and as much as he hated what his Guildmaster had done to the horse, the man was so strung-out that he might just make good on his threat. And sadly, the horse was not worth dying over. “No.” Then he moved past Mercer. “Was a shitty thing to do though.”

Mercer pulled the lever outside the sanctum and the stone door sank into the ground. “Get on with it.”

Falnas went inside, slowly, so his eyes could adapt to the darkness.

“Just make certain you keep your eyes open,” Mercer said quietly behind him. “Karliah’s not a hero with a blade, but she’s as sharp as one. Last thing I need is you blundering into a trap and letting her know we’re here.”

Of course. Falnas would never dare embarrass his Guildmaster by impaling himself at the bottom of a deadfall filled with spikes.

They descended a dark cave, the floor slick with sleet, moisture from the air that had frozen to the stones. Karliah sure had chosen a cold place to hole up in. Not very Dunmer of her.

“Look. In the wall.”

Falnas had noticed it too, a hole in the cave wall that was too neat to be natural. He didn’t have to look far to have his suspicions confirmed. On the floor of the cave there was a small, barely perceptible pressure trigger.

“Karliah probably reset the traps,” Mercer informed him. “Be extra cautious.”

“Even more cautious than before?” Falnas asked sarcastically.

“Just keep moving,” was all Mercer had to say to that.

Stepping over the pressure plate, they continued their descent, and soon found themselves before a solid stone door, and this one had no lever or operating mechanism, except for a curious set of holes in the middle.

“They say these Nordic burial mounds are impenetrable,” Mercer said, scoffing. “This one doesn’t look too difficult.” He took out a set of strangely-shaped lockpicks and began working the holes in the centre. “They’re supposed to require a special key. Won’t open without one.” A click sounded. “But they’re quite simple really,” he grunted as he worked. “All it takes is a little bit of know-how and a lot of skill.” Another click, and the door sank into the floor, in relative silence for such a heavy slab of stone. “After you.”

“So how did Karliah get in?” Falnas whispered.

“She must have had the key to this place,” Mercer said behind him. “Probably did away with it, or kept it on her, thinking nobody could get in.” Falnas heard a chuckle. “She thought wrong.” He pointed up. “Bone chimes. Don’t blunder into any of them.”

Slowly, they crept forward in a cave complex that looked like a catacomb. Indeed, in the walls, niches were hewn that contained mummified bodies, once healthy and alive, now desiccated and horrible to look at. Certainly not the way Falnas wanted to end up. A once-ornate chest, now tarnished with age, the copper stained and the wood decayed, stood on a pedestal in the middle of the catacombs. It was almost as if it was daring people to try and take it.

“Don’t touch,” Mercer said. “Magickal trap. Wouldn’t be surprised if it woke all these corpses up.”

Yeah, thanks Mercer. Falnas wasn’t an idiot. A chest placed in such a conspicuous location couldn’t _not_ be trapped. He doubted if the trap would actually wake the dead, but it was bound to be at least very unpleasant.

“Spike trap,” Falnas pointed out as he saw the pressure plate, and the taut ropes that went around the corner. Stepping on the pressure plate would mean getting turned into a leaky piece of meat as the wooden lattice set with spikes came a-swingin’ from around the corner.

“Fire trap,” Mercer said quietly, referring to the pressure plate in the centre of the hallway.

“Snare,” Falnas remarked, pointing at the sneakily thin thread floating above the floor.

There were no more traps in the hallway, and deeper it went, into the bowels of the earth, until it ended in a stone arch, that they passed under to find themselves in a wide open cave room, water standing up to their ankles and several ledges on the far side.

“Karliah’s close,” Mercer said. “I’m certain of it. Stay low and quiet.”

Falnas did so, but as he emerged into the open space, he heard a zipping sound, and too late to duck away, felt the stab of a barb in his neck. His muscles instantly went limp and he fell, splashing into the ice cold water, the poison doing its work, paralyzing him entirely. All he could do was look up at the ceiling of the cave with eyes he could no longer move.

“Karliah!” he heard Mercer threaten, as the sound of iron scraping on leather echoed off the cave walls. “Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?”

Falnas hoped Mercer had gone into cover, because if she got him too, they would both die. If he wasn’t already a dead man from this poison. Panic welled up in his chest, but he was able to rationalize it: if the poison was lethal, he’d be dead already. He couldn’t move, but somehow he could still breathe, albeit very, very slowly.

“Give me a reason to try,” came a defiant female voice from somewhere in the cave.

“You’re a clever girl, Karliah,” Mercer called out to her. “Buying Goldenglow Estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery was inspired.”

The voice came again, calm and collected. “To defeat an enemy, you must first cut him off from his allies. The first lesson Gallus told us both, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” Mercer called back. “You were always a quick study, weren’t you?”

This time, the voice was laced with an edge of sadness. “Not quick enough. Or Gallus would still be alive.”

That... didn’t sound right? Hadn’t she murdered him?

“Gallus had his wealth,” Mercer said to the other voice, “and he had you. He should have simply looked away. That was all he needed to do. But he had to keep interfering.”

What in Oblivion was going on? It sounded a lot like Karliah wasn’t the murderer, but...

“And you murdered him for it, Mercer. Our Guildmaster. And my love. Did you forget our oaths as Nightingales? Did you expect us to simply ignore what you were doing?”

Oh damn it. Damn it, this was all wrong. Mercer had been the one who’d murdered the old Guildmaster. And now that he knew this, Mercer wouldn’t let him live even if the poison didn’t kill him. And on the off chance that this Karliah person took Mercer down, she’d simply kill him for being in cahoots with her lover’s murderer. Falnas would die here, and no one would ever know.

“He chose his fate, Karliah, as you have just chosen yours,” Mercer declared. “Come down here, Karliah. If you want to see Gallus again, I’ll send you straight to him.”

“I’m no fool, Mercer. Fighting you directly would be suicide. But I’ll promise you this, next time we meet, it will be your downfall.”

Falnas heard running footsteps quickly fade into the distance as Karliah ran.

This was the end for him. He was paralyzed and completely at the mercy of the treacherous Guildmaster, and since the man had already murdered once in his life, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.

“Look at that,” he heard Mercer’s voice. He knew it was directed at him. “Still alive are you? Seems you’ll end up just like Gallus. History repeats itself it seems, and once again Karliah has provided me with the means to get rid of the only one who knows the truth.”

Falnas tried to move, tried to will his muscles to do something, anything, but he was simply paralyzed, and all the orders his brain gave to his body simply weren’t heard. This bastard was going to kill him there and then, and there’d be nothing he could do. What a shitty way to die. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t fair!

“But you know what I find most intriguing? The fact that all of this was possible because of you. Thanks for leading me to her. I’ll be certain to tell Brynjolf you died bravely at Karliah’s hand. Goodbye, and good riddance.”

Falnas helplessly watched as Mercer took out his main-gauche and in a single fluid movement, slid the blade into his victim’s gut. He didn’t feel a thing, but he knew the weapon had gone right through when he saw it come out bloody all the way to the hilt.

“Hope it’s mostly painless,” Mercer said with a sadistic grin. “If not, then it’s all the same. I’ll leave you to bleed out in peace.”

Falnas’ muscles still didn’t respond, and as Mercer walked away, it was in mental turmoil but in complete physical tranquillity that he slowly drifted into darkness.

The cold was still there when he opened his eyes. Never left, really. It was even colder than before.

But if he was dead, how did he feel the cold? And how had he just opened his eyes to look at the dusk sky?

“So you’re awake. It was touch-and-go for a while, but here you are.”

The second thing he felt, after the cold, was the sharp end of a knife on his throat.

“Hold still,” the voice said. A woman’s voice. “Mercer went back to the Ratway, didn’t he?”

It was Karliah. The woman Mercer had confronted earlier. Had she saved him? Probably. Dragged him outside at the very least. He could control his muscles again, somewhat, and there was a throbbing pain in his lower belly. Right, the stab. Son of a bitch Mercer.

“Look,” Falnas said, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t know he was the Guildmaster’s killer. He told all of us it was you. If I’d known – ”

“You say that now,” the woman said, “But all I saw was you creeping into that cave along with him.”

“I know you saw,” Falnas said. “Since you shot me and all.”

The woman’s voice chuckled. “I did. And I saved your life by doing so. The dart had a unique paralyzing poison. Slowed your heartbeat and metabolic functions. It’s the only reason you didn’t bleed out in minutes.”

“So I should thank you?”

Another chuckle. “No, but you should convince me that Mercer really had you fooled.”

“He had all of us fooled,” Falnas said, still unable to move his head far enough to see her. “Would he have fucking shanked me in the gut otherwise?”

The knife came off his throat. “Good point.”

“Shame I only had one dart. Couldn’t get a shot at Mercer so I had to waste it on you instead.”

“Well thanks,” Falnas said sarcastically.

“You should thank me. It saved your life.”

He was able to sit up now, and with the knife off his throat, he could at least turn his head to see his dubious saviour. “So you’re Karliah.” This was indeed Karliah, a Dunmer dressed in the same muffled leathers as he wore, only older and more worn. She had a narrow face, even for a Dunmer, and from under her hood peeked a lock of jet black hair, and her eyes... were they purple? She was pretty damn beautiful.

“I am Karliah. The one Mercer pinned the blame on for Gallus’ murder. That he committed.”

“How did he even get away with this?”

“Mercer’s good with two things: his blades, and his words. The fact that he’s so unpersonable actually makes his lies stick better. He simply crafted an elaborate lie, and with no one left to call him into doubt, everyone just... believed him.”

It was now that Falnas noticed he was bare-chested, with bandages wrapped around his abdomen. “Thanks for uh... patching me up.” She must know a Restoration spell or two, because he could almost _feel_ the wound heal.

“Don’t mention it. Glad I didn’t waste it on a crony for Mercer.” She sighed. “Look, I’m willing to believe you were a patsy in all of this. Mercer had everyone fooled, and I assume that includes you too. So I’m going to confide in you.”

“The fucker stabbed me and left me to die,” Falnas said, still seething at the betrayal. “Confide all you want.”

She took her saddle bag and opened it. “By the way, did you kill my horse?”

“No,” Falnas said. “That was all Mercer. Should have realized what kind of rotter he was when he killed a horse that never did him any wrong.”

“More reason to get rid of him then.” She sighed and stuck her hand into the saddle bag, taking out a leather-bound book, with on the front a sigil that looked like a bird raising its wings to the sun. “This is Gallus’ encoded journal. You won’t be able to read it, and neither can I. But I know someone who can.”

“Good, so let’s go see him.”

Karliah shook her head. “It’s in Winterhold. Mercer knows I’ll be trying to go there next. In fact, he’s had someone watching the place on and off ever since he knew I was still alive.”

“So I’ll go. He thinks I’m dead, right?”

Karliah nodded. “He does. It’s in Winterhold. Go see a man called Enthir, ask about getting it translated.”

“Right. I should go back to the Guild first though. Tell everyone what happened.”

She shook her head. “Get the book translated first. Without physical evidence, you’ll either get executed by Mercer right away, or he’ll be gone and everyone will suspect you of killing him. I’ve waited years for justice, surely you can wait a few days?”

Oh, he could wait a few days. No problem at all.


	32. Keljarn: Purity of Revenge

**Keljarn**

**Purity of Revenge**

**Jorrvaskr**

 

Vilkas had asked all the remaining Companions to convene at Jorrvaskr, saying he had important news. There was no mead being drunk, no bawdy tales being told. Even Farkas was quiet and pensive as they sat at one of the tables, the only remaining members of the Companions, with the exception of Athis, who was still recovering from his injuries. Aela had told him about the tragedy, and he’d predictably wanted to leap from his bed to join the march for revenge, but Aela had forbidden it. The man’s ribs were broken, after all.

So it was only Aela, Farkas and Keljarn sitting in the mead hall, in silence, waiting for Vilkas. It was late evening, and the torches flickered low, making the mead hall dark and cold.

They’d lost many, far more than Keljarn had ever thought possible. Ria, Njada, Kodlak, Skjor, all dead. Half their number, including the initiates. The future. He’d only been with the Companions for a short time, but still, he felt the loss as deeply as his fellows.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” Vilkas announced when he came in, closing the double doors behind him. “But it was with good reason.”

“So brother,” Farkas called out. “What news?”

“I found them,” Vilkas said, clutching a map in his fist and holding it up to the others. “Those murdering Silver Hand fanatics. I know where they’re holed up. It’s time to bring the fight to them.”

“Let me see that,” Aela promptly commanded, taking the map from her fellow Companion and unfolding it. “Driftshade Refuge,” she muttered, her finger following a line on the map. “This is where we’ll be going then.”

Vilkas nodded. “For victory or death.”

“I prefer victory if it’s at all possible,” Farkas grunted, also staring at the map.

“So then,” Keljarn said to the group. “How ‘bout we share what may be our last bottles of mead together?”

“There’s a thought,” Farkas’ face immediately brightened up. “I don’t care if I’m hungover tomorrow, no head-ache will take away the pleasure of finding the one whose hands have our Companions’ blood on them and slowly crushing his throat between my fingers.”

Aela gave a determined nod. “Tomorrow, either the Silver Hand gets wiped out, or it will have no more reason for existing. We hunt down the last of the Hand, or we hunt for eternity with Hircine.”

There was no Ria or Njada to bring the mead, and again their absence was felt, but Keljarn simply rose and went to fetch two bottles. It’d be enough for now. Maybe Farkas didn’t mind drinking himself into a stupor, but Keljarn wanted a clear head tomorrow, as tempting as just going on a full-out binge with his Companions sounded.

“I wonder if we will know,” Vilkas mused as Keljarn filled his cup.

“Know what?”

“Who it was that actually did the deed. When we raid the Silver Hand tomorrow. Will we know who the actual assassin was that murdered our Companions like a coward?”

“I don’t know, Vilkas,” Aela sighed. “But if we leave none alive, we’re certain to get the murderer too. And after all, the assassin is only the tool. The real one responsible is the one who sent him.”

“Krev the Skinner,” Farkas growled in pure anger. “I’d ask you to leave him for me, but you have as much right to kill him as I do. Whoever gets him though,” he drank from his cup and clacked it back down on the table, “make sure it hurts.”

“We’ll make sure it’s painful for every single one, brother,” Vilkas assured him. “We should be wary though. They’re bound to have silver weapons. Enchanted against shapeshifters, no doubt.”

Aela nodded, giving the others a grave look. “Going in already shifted is a bad idea. All it takes is one silver arrow to stop us in our tracks. We go in like this. Our blades will speak for us until our claws can.” She raised her mead cup. “But for tonight, let’s just enjoy this evening together. No more talk of the Silver Hand until tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Vilkas said, raising his cup to hers. “And if anyone has anything to confess or to say, tonight’s the time. What’s left unsaid remains that way.”

Keljarn took the advice to heart. Not at first, at first they simply all drank mead and exchanged tall tales and ribald jokes, but later in the evening, the two brothers had to go for new mead at the local brewery, a few minutes’ walk into town, and Aela and Keljarn had a moment to themselves.

“You know Keljarn,” Aela said, already tipsy but doing a good job of not showing it, “You’ve only been here a short time, but... it feels like we’ve known you for years.”

Keljarn, his head not exactly level either, simply answered, “Must be my charm.”

Aela grinned and refilled the cups with the last of the bottle. “Ria certainly thought so.”

“You think?” He knew it as well as she did, but it would be presumptuous to simply attribute emotions to a dead person.

“Mm-hm. Was pretty obvious.” She sighed. “What Vilkas said is right, though. What’s left unsaid remains that way.”

Keljarn stared into his cup. He might never get the chance again. “This may be... our last evening together.” He felt his heart begin to beat faster.

“Or it may not be,” Aela reminded him. “But I know what you’re getting at. Better that we all say what we think needs being said.”

“I... don’t want things to remain unsaid, Aela,” Keljarn said, his heart now pounding. Now or never. What was the worst thing that could happen, he tried to reason. The worst thing that could happen is that he or Aela or both would be dead tomorrow, and that he’d never gotten to speak his true feelings. Because he’d had them for Aela since the beginning.

“So say them,” Aela said, her face unreadable.

He took a breath and conquered his fear. “Aela, I’ve been having – ”

_Bam!_

“Brewery was down to its last bottles but we managed to beat him down to eighty septims per bottle,” Farkas exclaimed proudly as he and his brother barged into the mead hall, clearly having emptied one of the bottles on their way home. “He thought he’d take us for a ride, but I showed him.”

“Yes, Farkas’ shrewd bargaining skills were a glory to behold,” Vilkas laughed.

“No.” Keljarn said. It was out before he realized it. “No, I will not have this go like in some stupid comedy play.” He briefly let his gaze go past Aela’s face, and she looked surprised and amused at the same time. “You two are interrupting something important. Step outside for a few minutes. Please.”

Farkas struck an exaggeratedly defensive pose. “ _Whoa_ there. We couldn’t smell that you were having a little moment of privacy there.”

“We didn’t mean to interrupt, Vilkas grinned. “By all means continue whatever foul and depraved conversation you were having.”

“Come brother,” Farkas grunted, in pretend anger. “We’ll just have to empty this bottle without them.”

“Indeed,” Vilkas agreed. “At least the mead never asks for a moment of privacy.”

As they left, Aela grinned broadly. “Buffoons.”

Despite the gravity of what he wanted to say, Keljarn chuckled as well. “That they are.”

“Keljarn,” Aela said, serious again. “You know... well, what things are like, don’t you?”

She meant Skjor, and her feelings for him. The guy was recently dead, and Keljarn had no intention of disrespecting the man’s memory, but on the other hand, it wasn’t his fault he felt the way he did, and the only reason he said it was so he wouldn’t take it to his grave tomorrow. He had to do this. “Aela. I’m just going to come straight out and say it. I’m in love with you.”

She looked like she’d been expecting him to say exactly that. She probably had been. “Keljarn, I’m _really_ flattered. I mean it. And...” Hope flared up in Keljarn’s chest, “... I could see myself feeling the same way. But not now. It’s... too soon.”

He hadn’t expected any different, and her words were heartening, because there was hope. Well, unless... “Then from now on, you are expressly forbidden to die tomorrow, is that clear?”

She smiled. “I had no intention of doing so.” Then she brought her face closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Keljarn, in more ways than one. Give me time, that’s all I ask.”

“You’ve got all the time you need.” He had time too. No need to rush, just knowing she considered it possible to reciprocate his feelings in the future was enough. He’d never hoped for her to jump his bones, the business with Skjor was too recent, but this was a better outcome than he’d hoped for. He made sure to show it by smiling broadly. “After we kick those bastards’ asses tomorrow.”

“And kick them we will,” Aela said. “Now go tell those idiots they can come back in.”

There were, thankfully, a few bottles of mead left, but Farkas and Vilkas had added deed to word and drained another one while outside. They fished after the contents of the private conversation, even though Keljarn was certain they knew well enough what it had been about, but prolonged dodging by both himself and Aela made the conversation shift, first to the degree of attractiveness of hairy armpits on women, then to the criteria of a good razor, then Eorlund’s smithing, and finally a drunken battle plan for the assault tomorrow. It was a horrible plan, but Keljarn knew none of them would remember it the day after.

What he did remember was walking Aela to her room and wishing her goodnight after a kiss on the cheek.

* * *

It was with a surprisingly small hangover that he rose, only a faint pulsating pain in the back of his head. His mouth was dry and his eyes were caked shut, but those were small problems and easy to remedy. Good. He didn’t feel like dying with a sore head.

Time to crush the Silver Hand. The sheer desire for revenge was enough to drive the sand from his eyes and the pain from his head. He got up, got his clothes on, and went to the mead hall, chugging down a bottle of water he’d taken off a table in the corridor. With the mead hall empty, he went for a breath of fresh air. It was still relatively early, dawn had just finished breaking and the sun’s rays were visible, shining from the horizon, over the thatched and wooden roofs of the houses in Whiterun, giving them all a shining halo. A good sign, Keljarn supposed. Then again, the sun shone for the Silver Hand too. It was then that he realized how idiotic it was to interpret the weather as a sign.

He stood there, breathing in the morning fresh air for a few minutes – it might be the last chance he’d ever have, after all – and then he went back into the mead hall. Farkas was up already, and he looked up from his meal of bread and dried meat when he saw Keljarn. “You lookin’ forward to it, Companion?”

“Looking forward isn’t the best way to describe it,” Keljarn said. “I wish it had never happened at all.”

“Aye,” Farkas grunted. “Truer words. Still, it is what it is.”

Keljarn swallowed the remark about how he hated that expression and simply said, “Yes it is. Sadly. And yes, they deserve a good thrashing and we’re going to give it to them.”

“You said it. Eat, this kind of hunger needs to be sated first.”

As they ate, first Vilkas and then Aela came up, joining them for their meal. Vilkas told them about the place the Silver Hand was holed up: a camp on a hilltop, with a few trees here and there. Similar to the place Skjor had died, from the sound of it. Would be difficult to approach, and once they did, they’d be fighting out in the open, which would mean arrows and crossbow bolts all around. Not exactly ideal. Still, he was assured, the Companions had battled more dire odds before. Keljarn was pretty certain they just said it to give themselves and each other courage. He had suggested a thinking about a more patient or more cunning approach, but the suggestion had been immediately passed off as unacceptable. Hircine wanted these cowardly bastards slaughtered, he wanted his wolves to descend upon them and annihilate them in a whirlwind of blood and claws, the survivors hunted down and caught, ripped to shreds like the dogs they were. At least, that’s what Vilkas said. Hircine would watch over them this day, if they paid him appropriate tribute.

This tribute was to be paid in the Underforge, and Keljarn already had a vague idea of what it would entail. In the gloomy, cold air of the Underforge, Alea spoke, “Lord Hircine, Father of Manbeasts, Great Huntsman, grant your favour to us, your hunters, protect us so we may descend upon those who would, like cowards, strike at us from the shadows. Let us erase the stink of their depravity with the scent of fresh blood, spilled for your glory, against those who seek to defile you and your gift.”

With that, Aela swept the knife over the palm of her other hand, slashing it open to the bone, then held out her arm and made a fist, so the blood ran into the red font in the centre of the Underforge.

“Lord Hircine, Great Huntsman,” Vilkas said, “Protect me so I may shed blood for you, today and forever, in this world and the next.” He too slashed open his palm and let his blood mix with Aela’s.

“Father of Manbeasts,” Farkas intoned, “Make me your champion, give me the strength and protection I need to wreak bloody vengeance in your name.” Another cut, and his blood, too, ran into the font.

Keljarn wasn’t clear on what to say when Farkas gave him the knife. Aela calmly said, “Say what you want to say. So what comes from the heart. Then cut deep. Shallow cuts do not please our Lord.”

Keljarn took a breath and then said, “Lord Hircine. Honestly, I don’t care about you very much. But the dogs who killed Njada, Ria and Kodlak must pay. Grant me protection, not because of who am I, but because what I will do. You have every interest in seeing us succeed.”

The three other Companions looked at him like he’d spoken blasphemy, but he disregarded their alarmed eyes and brought up the knife. Clenching his teeth, he made it slash downward as hard as he could, and he felt the immense pain as the blade sliced through his skin and the flesh in the palm of his hand, sliding over the bones as it laid them bare. Biting the pain, he raised his hand, and let his blood join that of his Companions.

He felt it, and he knew the others did too. It was subtle, but it was definitely there. A change in the atmosphere. The air getting a little thicker. The metallic smell of their blood a bit sharper in their nostrils.

“It’s done,” Aela said. “Our Father will decide if we are worthy. Let us leave Him to his sacrifice.”

They waited until they were outside and the door mechanism as closed again, before binding the wounds on their hands. “The injury will heal as we shift shape,” Aela explained. “Lord Hircine will see to that, if we are worthy.”

Keljarn also bound his hand, ignoring the stinging pain as the bandage came into contact with his raw, open flesh.

“No need to pack bags,” Vilkas said. “I’ve got a pouch of food and we should get there at dusk if we hurry. Either we walk through the night to come back, or... we don’t come back at all.”

Aela nodded. “Let us depart then.”

Grimly, Farkas closed with, “Death or vengeance.”

Their walk was completely silent, Vilkas leading the way, the others following. There was a brief, also silent stop for eating at noon, and at dusk, perfectly according to Vilkas’ calculations, their point man motioned for them to halt. They were in a small grove, just before the treeline.

“Look there,” Vilkas said, kneeling and pointing forward and upward. The three Companions sat by their shieldbrother and looked where he pointed. A hill lay in front of them, clear of trees except for the occasional lone trunk here and there, and it was covered with purple mountain flowers. Between the sparse trees, they saw a few tents, and some moving shapes.

“It’s them alright,” Aela said, her sharp eyes investigating the camp. “Haven’t seen the Skinner yet though.”

“How do we recognize him?” Keljarn asked.

“Got a massive severed werewolf claw across his chest,” Farkas grunted, sounding disgusted. “Like a fucking ornament.”

“He’s bound to be among them,” Vilkas said. “I suggest we capture him alive. Wring him for information.”

“If we must,” Farkas said, obviously disappointed. But when he’s told us all we need to know, he dies. Painfully and bloodily. Are we clear on this?”

Aela briefly moved her head sideways. “Oh, we’re clear.”

“Don’t worry brother,” Vilkas added, “He will die, and it will hurt.”

Keljarn briefly felt apprehensive at the bloodlust, but he pushed the feeling deep down. They needed to be beasts if they wanted to survive this. And despite all the ‘vengeance or death’ talk, Keljarn really did hope to survive this, along with his fellows. But he knew how unlikely this was.

“Despite our Lord’s protection,” Aela said, then briefly added, “if He thinks us worthy,” and continued, “we will not be invulnerable, and you can be certain they’ll be armed with silver weaponry. Which means we do not shift until we can safely do so, or we have to.”

“Silver hurts us far more in wolf form,” Vilkas briefly said, as an aside to Keljarn. “If we’re in human form, it’s still very painful, but it won’t paralyze or weaken us as it does when we’re shifted, or worse, in the process of shifting.”

“So shift at the right time,” Farkas said.

Aela added, “But definitely shift at one point. It’s how we honour Hircine.”

“Right. So what’s the battle plan?”

Farkas chortled. “Battle plans are for shiny-armoured bucketheads who are too puny to fight for the glory of Hircine.”

His brother nodded. “To honour Hircine is to descend upon your foes like a raging tide of destruction and mayhem.”

“Some tide,” Keljarn said with a chuckle. “Four people.”

With a grin, Aela said, “Ye of little faith. Believe me, when Hircine finds us worthy, even four of us can turn that camp into a ruin of rags, wood, blood and bone.”

She was right, he supposed. He had to trust his fellows. They seemed certain enough. “Alright then. Let’s get it done.”

They spread out in the tree line, crouched and waiting for Aela’s signal. Her eyes were sharpest, and she could see when the mongrels sat down for dinner. They didn’t know the Companions were coming, so they had no reason to be extra attentive. They had formed _some_ sort of battle plan, which involved Aela and Vilkas attempting to take out the sentries silently before the charge began, giving them more time to close with their prey. As soon as the first arrow flew, they would descend upon their enemies, giving them no time to get ready. Hircine wanted blood and destruction but there was no rule saying their enemy couldn’t be flat-footed and still have a wooden spoon in his hand when they tore him apart. The sentries would doubtless make noise, but they wouldn’t alert the camp as quickly as they would if they just saw them coming. The sky slowly darkened to twilight. Good, the darkness would make it easier for them.

Abruptly, an arrow flashed out of the tree line, followed quickly by another one. Vilkas’ shot struck the first sentry through the throat (remarkable, or very lucky, at such a distance), shutting him up as he staggered and fell, but Aela’s shot got the other sentry dead in the chest. Certainly a lethal shot, but not one that would stop him from making a lot of noise on the way down.

Next to him, Farkas took off, his axe high, and he saw Aela and Vilkas drop their bows and spring from the trees as well. After briefly thinking to himself, _let me fight with honour_ , he too threw himself forward and began running.

The first sentry, Vilkas’ kill, had collapsed and now came rolling lazily down the hill, while the other kept to his feet, the arrow that stuck through his chest, in his fists. Before falling, he let out a loud wail, alerting the entire place.

It didn’t matter. Keljarn and his Companions raced up the hill, their legs propelling them forward in bounds. His vision shaking from the force of his boots connecting with the earth, Keljarn saw shapes rising up between the tents, and soon the cries of alarm rang out, people scrambling for their weapons and armour. As he ran up, Keljarn came past the body of Vilkas’ sentry, and almost without thinking, he brought his boot down hard on the dead man’s head, feeling the vibrations go through his foot as his jaw and several vertebrae broke.

His velocity unabated by his pointless act of cruelty, he reached the camp along with his fellows. One of the Silver Hand bastards hastily tried to nock an arrow, but Keljarn’s axe came down, chopping into his skull and splitting it open all the way to his teeth, his brain flying in chunks from his head when Keljarn yanked the axe out.

_Maybe this was Ria’s murderer._

From the corner of his eye, he saw Aela fall upon another enemy, thrusting her dagger forward, punching it through the mouth and out the back of her enemy’s head, the dagger point sticking through her blond hair.

Another Silver Hand, his breastplate only strapped at one side, lunged at Keljarn as he continued his charge, but Keljarn’s felt a gentle nudge against his side, and responding to the barely perceptible push, he jerked his body to the side, dodging the slash and swinging his axe, chopping through the man’s beard, and into his throat, almost beheading him in a single blow.

_Maybe this was Ria’s murderer._

His speed dragged him on, and he crashed into another Silver Hand, knocking her frail body to the ground and rolling on top of her. The weak Bosmer woman was powerless as he sat up, raised his axe, and let it come down straight into her green tunic, crushing her breastbone and splitting her ribcage. She let out a horrible, breathless wail, but Keljarn’s axe cut it short, coming down straight into her face.

 _Maybe this was Ria’s murderer_.

He rose and felt a massive force slamming into him, taking him back to the ground. The Redguard who’d body-slammed him raised his mace, but Keljarn was faster, giving him a short punch in the face, then following up with his axe, coming down on his enemy’s shoulder, chopping through the collar bone, and down into his ribs. As the man fell off him and came to his feet, staggering with a dazed expression on his face, Keljarn let his axe swing low, catching the man in the abdomen, chopping into his bowels with a wet thud. He pulled the axe free, gutting the man where he stood and watching as he fell to his knees, his good arm shifting from his shoulder to his insides.

 _Maybe this was Ria’s murderer_.

Instead of killing him, he kicked the man hard in his exposed insides, sending him to the ground with a loud gurgle as the guts ruptured further beneath his boot. Let him die slowly and painfully.

A Khajiit came at him, but this one clearly had no idea how to fight. Keljarn caught the mongrel by the throat, instantly stopping his lunge. This couldn’t be the one who’d murdered Ria, Njada and Kodlak, so he made it quick even though he knew he could take his time, swinging his axe sideways and striking the Khajiit in the middle of the face, splitting its muzzle and destroying its brain.

A mass of rust-brown fur and claws flew past him, falling on a screaming Silver Hand member and obscuring Keljarn’s sight on the explosion of blood that followed.

Following Aela’s example, he too shifted, feeling a sense of approval wash over him. He knew they had won. Nothing could stop them now. It was far less painful than last time, but maybe he simply didn’t feel the pain as his bones broke and realigned and his muscles swelled. He heard the ripping sounds of his clothes as they tore from his body.

As his vision became as red as the blood he smelled so much more strongly now, screams and cries of pain sounded on all sides of him, and he knew his Companions were still killing. An injured Silver Hand member knew all was lost, and he tried to hobble away, holding his side.

In a few leaps, Keljarn had caught him, even before he’d gotten clear of the camp, and he fell on him, taking him down and savouring his cries of pain as his fangs sunk into his soft, rich Altmer meat and tore a massive chunk out of his shoulder. His prey squealed, but his jaws closed again, this time over his head, crushing and wrenching until it came off, and the blood from the stump of his prey’s neck sprayed against his fangs, chin and rump, drenching his fur.

The noise had stopped, and Keljarn spat out the mangled head, letting the torn mess of skin and bone roll down the hill. He stomped back to the middle of the camp , briefly surveying the battlefield. All were dead and nothing moved.

Vilkas shifted back, his clothes in tatters, his shirt entirely gone, and his breeches split at the thighs, strips of cloth hanging from his calves. Farkas stayed in werewolf form a little longer, looking at the hulking form of Aela, still in wolf form like him, holding a limp figure between her teeth, face up. Even between the blood and shreds of skin, Keljarn saw the severed werewolf paw, now red with the Skinner’s own blood. He was still alive, though barely, his bald head also dripping with blood. He wasn’t long for this world, and that wasn’t right. It had to hurt. Even more than Aela’s fangs in him, tearing his skin and organs even further with every move his body made.

Farkas, also still in wolf form, growled in anger and disappointment at the Skinner’s impending death. Aela had been too rough with him, although the bleeding cut across her snout told him she’d had no choice. At least it hadn’t been silver.

Keljarn released his animal instincts, and felt himself shifting back into his human form, pain wracking through his body, but he bit it, because he had only one question. “The assassin,” he demanded to know as soon as he could move again, sweeping his arm across the carnage. “Which one?”

The Skinner merely grinned his bloody teeth bare, chortling briefly before groaning from the pain as everything tore further with ever move his body made. “Never... find...”

“Which one?” Vilkas snarled, shouting in his ear. He knew, like Keljarn, that hurting him more was pointless. Any pain Vilkas could inflict on him would drown in the sea of agony Aela’s teeth were making.

Another gurgling laugh, cut short by his own pain. “Not... one of... us.”

“But sent by you!” Keljarn shouted. “Who?”

No response.

“Fucking tell us! Who?”

The Skinner’s defiant grin became even wider, and it remained even when the face it was on had died.

With a loud roar, Aela hefted the body in the air and sent it smacking down, bursting its skull on a large rock. Krev the Skinner’s brains spattered from his head, drenching the grass with red.

“Fuck!” Keljarn shouted, kicking down a tent in pure rage. They’d destroyed the Silver Hand, but blood still ran through the hand that had murdered the others. And with all of them dead, the chance of ever finding the killer was lost. He roared again, kicking a pewter cup so hard it flew into the air.

“Justice has been done, Keljarn,” Vilkas said. “We got the one that gave the order, and that’s what’s important. We’ll get the assassin yet.”

“Skinner wasn’t lying,” Farkas grunted. “Wasn’t one of them. Saw it in his eyes. You can’t fake that kind of petty, evil defiance.”

Keljarn agreed. Krev the Skinner hadn’t been lying.

“Come,” Vilkas said, putting his arm on Keljarn shoulder. “Let’s give Aela some privacy to shift back.

As he trudged down the hill, he knew he should be glad that the Silver Hand was destroyed and none of his Companions had died. But something was missing. The victory felt incomplete. And he knew why, knew it would darken his mood during the celebration that would be held when they returned home.

The assassin was still out there. Living, breathing. And no matter what it took, Keljarn would set it right.


	33. Siari: The Silence Has Been Broken

**SIARI**

**The Silence Has Been Broken**

**Volunruud**

 

It had taken Siari some time to hike all the way to Volunruud, but she hadn’t minded all that much. She could do without all the tensions and the drama back in the Sanctuary, with Astrid acting like she was on the worst period she’d ever had and everyone else walking on eggshells, except of course Cicero, who missed no opportunity to vex the ‘bossy homemaker’. So the trip had been a welcome diversion, just herself, her thoughts, and her unfavourable thoughts of the world.

There was a lever next to the entrance, and Siari stuffed the rest of her sweetroll in her pack, pulled her mask up, then engaged the mechanism. The stone door ground open, and darkness yawned before her. Taking a breath, she stepped inside.

In the darkness, her eyes still trying to adapt, she faintly saw a man uncross his legs and rise to his feet, taking up the warhammer that had lain beside him. “Who goes there?” The voice was wary but collected.

Siari obviously couldn’t answer.

Again the voice demanded to know who she was, and again she couldn’t reply. She simply raised her hands to show they were empty.

“Step forward slowly, and identify yourself,” the man with the hammer said. His accent sounded Cyrodiilic, but Siari wasn’t sure.

She did as she was told, stepping towards the man. She made sure to draw her fist across her throat to indicate she couldn’t speak.

“I won’t ask again. Identify yourself this instant.”

Siari let out an angry sigh and rolled her eyes. She’d just indicated that she couldn’t. Besides, didn’t the shrouded armour speak for itself? Of course it did.

“It’s alright, Rexus,” another voice came from the darkness, this one with a cultured Breton accent, and equally fancy clothes, much finer than the clothing in Skyrim, and probably even posh by High Rock standards. This wasn’t some backwoods bumpkin, nowhere near it. “I was already... informed that our contact has been afflicted with a rather significant speech impediment.”

“Hmph,” the other man, obviously a bodyguard, grunted. “Then she can at least lisp her name or something.”

A dignified chuckle. “No, not even that I’m afraid.” The Breton stepped forward and gave her a long glance. “Please. No need for secrets, or masks here. Believe me when I say that I am at far greater risk than you are.”

Siari shook her head.

The man with the hammer minced far less words. “Mask. Off.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” the fancy-clothes Breton said, tempering his bodyguard’s attitude. “There can be no paranoia, no secrets between us. This matter is of too great an importance. I fully understand your reticence, but I must ask you to remove your mask or remove yourself.”

Siari was torn for a brief moment. Part of her wanted to just turn on her heels and leave. Then again, she’d come this far, and blowing up this contract would mean displeasing the Night Mother, and Siari didn’t feel like displeasing an entity more powerful than she was. So she let out an angry breath through her nose, and pulled the mask down and her hood off, fluffing her ponytail out of her collar.

“There. This makes for a less tense conversation, does it not?” the Breton said. “Though I must say, I hadn’t expected someone this...”

_Snotty? Puny? Untesticled?_

“... innocent-looking.”

Hm. Siari could live with that. Still, she simply shrugged at him to indicate that she’d be as good as it got.

“Yes. Well. I am, as you know, Amaund Motierre, and I wish to employ the Brotherhood’s services, for what is likely to be their greatest undertaking”, he chuckled at the age-old pun, “in its history. But where are my manners. Sit, please.”

He motioned towards two travelling chairs with furs draped over them, with a small campfire in the middle. A put was suspended over it, steam rising from the heated water.

“You seem to have arrived just in time,” Motierre said as they sat down, Siari trying not to show how much she enjoyed the feeling of the soft, expensive fur. “Water is close to boiling. Tea?”

Siari thought briefly of refusing (it always felt awkward to accept something from strangers), but she’d always been taught that accepting offers of refreshment is the most polite, and she _was_ seriously cold, so she smiled and nodded. Not like it’d be poisoned or anything.

Motierre scooped some water from the pot, filled two pewter mugs, and sprinkled some ground leaves in each. Strange that he did it himself and not let his bodyguard do it, but Siari wasn’t here to ask questions.

“Now then,” Motierre told her as he passed the cup of in-progress tea to her. “About what I require of you. As I said before, it’s the most significant contract the Brotherhood has ever been offered.”

Siari raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. It would probably be far less significant as he imagined it to be.

He leaned in, the embers of the small campfire casting his face in red. “The contract... is for Emperor Titus Mede.”

There was a brief silence as the words sank in.

Then, Siari felt herself break into a chuckle. This was too crazy for words. Some crackpot with fancy threads trying to pull a prank, or just believing his own delusions. Her chuckle grew into a laugh, echoing off the walls. She enjoyed the sound of her own voice as it laughed. It was one of the few times she could actually use her voice without making inarticulate yawling sounds that made her feel ashamed beyond words.

“I thought you couldn’t speak?” the bodyguard grunted, clearly knowing nothing.

“This is no joke, I assure you,” the other said, his face completely straight. “Though I suppose I can’t fault you for thinking it is. When you are done being unprofessional, perhaps I can divulge the details?”

He was serious? By the hairs on Grelod’s chin, this guy was serious. Siari stopped laughing and looked at him in disbelief. This fancy-pants was _serious_.

“May I? This letter contains all the details. It will be a series of tasks, each aimed at assuring the Emperor’s presence in Skyrim, and weakening his security. Execute each one to the letter, and you’ll find the Emperor himself a vulnerable target.”

This guy really was serious.

“Drink your tea.”

As Siari took a drink from the warm, bitter tea, the rich toff rummaged in a bag, taking out a sealed envelope. “The enclosed amulet will both assure you that I am no common peasant, and it should fetch a price high enough to cover any expenses. Pay for the assassination will follow after completion. The terms are all explained.”

The envelope exchanged hands from his manicured fingers to her gloved ones, and Siari felt the weight of a jewel inside, as well as the thickness of a sheaf of papers. She also didn’t miss the capitals spelling “ASTRID”, nor the seal that made sure it wasn’t opened before reaching its recipient. Siari still couldn’t wrap her head around what she’d heard. A plot to assassinate the Emperor of Cyrodiil. The Emperor, even, of Tamriel, as the Imperials so loved to claim. And while Titus Mede wasn’t the most beloved of Emperors, nor the most legitimate, it was hard to imagine anyone hating him enough to risk trying to assassinate him. Then again, Emperors were Emperors. Not many of them had died of natural causes. Still, if Siari remembered correctly, it had been over a hundred years since an Emperor had been assassinated. Uriel Septim, Emperor of Tamriel, had been stabbed multiple times by a bunch of lunatics known as the Mythic Dawn. It had been a dent on the reputation of the Dark Brotherhood – being upstaged so painfully would make even the most confident guild blush – but that hadn’t mattered for long, since a few weeks later, all of them had been wiped out during a mass poisoning. Perhaps it had even been that Mythic Dawn cult, looking to deal the coup de grace to the Brotherhood. It was possible.

But still. Attempting to assassinate an Emperor was generally seen as suicide. There was this specialized division of the Imperial Army, dedicated to the Emperor’s safety, the Penis Oculus or something, and they were supposed to be both extremely thorough, and extremely punitive towards would-be assassins. Siari recalled the story Veezara had told her, of an assassin, or a would-be assassin rather, who’d been captured by the Emperor’s guardians. He’d appeared before the court blind, without fingers or toes, and without his manhood. And that was _before_ the sentence had even been determined. Then again, it could also just be a tall tale. Wasn’t the Imperial Army bound by laws? No matter.

“I see the reality of the situation is sinking in,” Motierre said. “It will give you something to think about during your return trip. Do not worry overmuch, I’ve taken care of everthing. As I said, follow these instructions to the letter and everything will be fine.”

Easy for him to say. Siari finished her tea, the envelope in her other hand, then rose, making a short bow. People like these loved it when you acted all formal.

“And a good day to you too. I suspect we shan’t hear of each other until the entirety of the contract is completed.” He rose and said, “If there is nothing else?”

Siari shook her head, turned and left, her head full of questions.

* * *

Astrid’s reaction was much the same when Siari handed her the paper she’d written Motierre’s ultimate plan on. First a chuckle, then a laugh. Her face showed mirth, but her eyes were dark with worry and unease. “I’m glad you can still make jokes, but come on, be serious. What did he want?”

Her face serious, Siari pointed at the paper again. She’d written, in hasty letters, ‘assassinate emperor’.

Astrid let a few more guffaw-induced hiccups escape, then her face slowly became serious. “You’re not kidding?” She pointed at the paper. “He’s not kidding?”

Siari shook her head and produced the envelope.

Astrid took it with a confused face. “So what is this?”

What did she think it was? Siari let out an impatient sigh and scribbled on the paper, ‘plans. amulet. cover expenses.’

Astrid turned the envelope over in her hands and broke the seal, sliding out the sheaf of paper, each sheet covered with writing on both sides. Also out came an amulet, a gold chain with an equally gold pendant, set with diamonds and gems. Didn’t look like a cheap trinket bought at the Pawned Prawn. Astrid didn’t think so either, giving a little whistle when she saw it. She put the amulet down and thumbed through the papers.

“It’ll... take some time to get through all this and organize it, from the looks of things,” Astrid muttered, not looking up. “Meanwhile, go see Nazir. He’s got a job for you. Some crooked noble performed the Black Sacrament.” She kept looking down, rifling through the papers. “Believe it or not, we still have actual jobs to do while you run secret errands for the Night Mother.” The envy and venom in her voice was unmistakable. “It’s in Riften. I believe you know the place.” Yes. She did. She’d taken quite a few tumbles down the stairs with the assistance of the kindly orphanage mistress, taken quite a few canes to her bare behind with all the other kids watching, relieved that it wasn’t them this time, being hurt and shamed in front of the others. She’d spent many hungry nights there and seen many of her friends get sold to ‘foster parents’ who took them away with evil and hungry eyes, until she’d run away into the night, dressed in nothing but her frayed and dirty underclothes, and Astrid knew it. “Take this amulet too. I’ve got a contact in the city who can appraise it for you. I’ll send word, he’ll be expecting you.”

Siari wanted to acknowledge her orders, but Astrid didn’t look up and kept perusing the papers. She knew full well that Siari couldn’t communicate if she didn’t look at her.

Feeling her jaw clench, Siari took the amulet, turned on her heels and left, slamming the door.

The cold sun was bliss on her face when she bit the apple she’d bought, feeling the juice trickle into her dry throat. With all this assassin-business, she’d almost forget to enjoy the little things. Riften was a stink hole of a city, with an even bigger stink hole in the middle in the form of the now-defunct orphanage, but she wasn’t Siari the ragged orphan this time. She was Siari the almost-adult assassin, part of a group. Part of a _family_. Part of her wished Grelod would see her now: a strong and feared young woman, who could end lives. Who _belonged_ to something. But Grelod couldn’t see anything anymore. Siari had taken all that away, as Grelod had taken her childhood.

She opened her eyes when she felt the bench shake, a man sitting down next to her. He was reading some random pamphlet he’d picked up off the cobblestones. As he read, he said quietly. “Perhaps you can help me, miss. I’d like to buy an amulet. An expensive one. Don’t know if you know anybody?”

Siari rolled her eyes at the unsubtle display from the man with shoulder-length hair and a brown stubble on his chin. He looked like a Guild member if ever there was one.

He saw her reaction and said, “Yes. I assume it’s not possible for you to answer?”

Siari shook her head, munching her mouthful of apple, and resumed swaying her head from side to side to get the chunks to roll between her teeth.

“And you eat like a very strange person,” the man in leathers remarked.

Yes, it’s how people eat when they don’t have a tongue to move things around in their mouths. Was this guy just sitting here to make observations about her eating habits?

“No need for that look,” he said with a chuckle. “’I’m just playing. Astrid sent you?”

Siari nodded. _Obviously_.

“Follow me.”

He got up and led her to the graveyard. Her father was supposedly buried here, but she’d never even known the man. Her mother wasn’t here though. Hadn’t been enough left to bury. The place was colourful with flowers and a cold sun basking it in light, but Siari had always known it as a rainy, dreary place. There wasn’t a living soul in the graveyard right now, and Siari hoped her escort wouldn’t try to kill her and take her priceless amulet. He wasn’t good at being funny, but he was two heads taller than she was, and twice as broad. Assassin or no, Siari wouldn’t stand much of a chance in a straight fight. When they reached a small mausoleum, the man stopped her and made her wait outside. “Just a sec. Name’s Brynjolf by the way.”

She nodded without telling him her name. And not just because she wasn’t physically able to.

He went inside, there was a clicking sound and the noise of stone grinding on stone, and his head popped out again. “Down here. G’theer, show the lady to the back room and stay with her until Delvin’s here.”

“Of course, Brynjolf,” the Khajiit waiting at the bottom of the stairs said to his superior. “This way, please.”

So this is where the Guild had been holed up. Siari had heard of them (and one of them had stolen all of her two septims when she’d had a day to go to the market a few years ago), but she’d never known where they’d had their base of operations. Here, apparently.

Siari climbed down the ladder and followed the initiate to the back room, a small space, secluded from the big cistern, its walls slick with moisture that gleamed in the dancing torch light. There was a table and some chairs, but Siari didn’t feel like sitting. She was small enough without sitting down already, and she didn’t want to have to look up at the people she’d come to see. The initiate nodded and left the room.

There wasn’t much to see in the room, apart from a rather nice picture book, with sketches made by an unknown artist. They were more than decent, and Siari leafed through the pages as she waited for the contact.

It didn’t take long. The door opened with a creak, and a man with a shaved head said, in a heavy north-Breton accent, “After you, mate.”

The two Guild members came in, and Siari put the book down.

One of them, a Dunmer with short hair standing up, and sharp features, snorted and asked, in a loud and rude voice, “She’s from the Brotherhood? This slip of a girl?”

Was this how this was going to go? Siari crossed her arms, feeling furious. What was this asshole’s problem? She was pretty damn tired of being seen as a kid.

“What’d you expect then mate?” the other thief, an older man with a shaved head, asked his companion, sounding annoyed with his friend’s rudeness. “Some dark elf with a cowl, white hair an’ two scimitars? That’s how you all think an assassin looks like don’t you? Well let me tell you summat. This ‘slip of a girl’ is ten times more likely to get ‘er mark than any cowled showman with two black swords an’ a whole list of ‘tragic powers’.”

This one made sense at least. Still, Siari didn’t think it was time to abandon her crossed arms and her glare just yet.

“An’ you know why?” the bald guy went on, his friend apparently realizing that he’d pulled a blunder. “Because this girl don’t _look_ like an assassin, mate. The best assassin is the one you don’t suspect. Give ‘er a frock an’ some flowers in ‘er ‘air, an’ no one suspects a thing.”

There. See?

The ashface seemed to have understood, raising his hands to show he didn’t mean any trouble. “Alright, alright. I apologize. I’ll uh... let Delvin do the talking.”

“Best, mate,” the other said, seeing the humour in his friend’s stupid statement. Good thing the churlish Dunmer let the Breton do the talking, because these negotiations wouldn’t end well if the boor kept running his mouth. “So, you’ve come to us with word from Astrid, do you?”

Glad to return to the business at hand, Siari nodded.

“How is our lovely Astrid? Still an arse like a pair of juicy peaches, squeezed into ‘er tight leather breeches?”

Siari didn’t know about Astrid’s butt, but somehow, the man had a disarming personality, and she couldn’t help but grin at the silly rhyme. It’d have been different if the Dunmer had said it, then she hadn’t tolerated the question, but from this guy, for some reason, it sounded harmless.

“Forgive me if I seem ignorant,” the Dunmer said. Ugh, here we go. Siari already dreaded the idiocy that would come out of his mouth, “but do Brotherhood members take vows of silence?”

Hm. It could have been worse. He was still a moron, but the question hadn’t made it worse at least. So in the interest of the negotiations, she let her wary look go off her face and drew her hand across her throat like she always did.

“Oh,” the volcano worshipper said. “I see.”

With that out of the way, Siari took the sealed letter from her pouch and handed it to the man called Delvin, who read it intently.

“Pleased to meet you, Siari,” the man said as he read, without looking up from the paper. Siari smiled and nodded a greeting back at him, even though she knew he didn’t see. It wasn’t ill will, just forgetfulness. Not like Astrid had done.

“Pleased to meet you too,” the Dunmer said. Siari let her smile fade, knowing full well that it did, and just nodded back at him. Fucking idiot.

“You already know Delvin, and I’m Falnas.”

Siari didn’t care who in Oblivion he was. She just wished he’d shut up, but took care not to show it.

“So Astrid wants the enclosed amulet verified for value,” Delvin said, folding the letter again. He fished in the envelope, taking out the amulet given to her by Amaund Motierre. Even in this faint torchlight, it shimmered like nothing she’d ever seen. The Breton whistled between his teeth, clearly impressed. “I actually know that piece.” He looked back at her. “I’ll take it off your ‘ands right now, if you want. Spare you a trip to the antiquary. It’s more than worth the price Astrid hopes I’ll estimate it for.”

Oh, that would be nice. Save her the trip. She smiled and nodded, happy not to have to wear her soles even thinner.

“I’ll write out a letter of credit for it. Should work just fine for Astrid.” He paused, then looked up from the amulet. “She still with that hairy oaf?”

Heh, yes she was still with Arnbjorn.

He simply let out a frustrated snort. “Only thing I could possibly consider a negative point of Astrid is ‘er taste in men.” Siari couldn’t disagree entirely. He handed her the letter back and she took it. “Where’d you get this am – ” he began, but he interrupted himself. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” He bent over a table, scribbled some words on a paper and handed that, too, to the assassin. “Letter o’ credit, lass. Astrid knows I’m good for it.”

Astrid had indeed said that a letter of credit from this man was completely reliable, and that she could accept it without questioning. Glad to be out of this hole, and away from the Dunmer asshole, she made a short bow, and left the room, letting the initiate lead her back up.

She was glad to find herself back in the sunlight. The rat hole the Guild scurried to after jobs was a miserable place. Sanctuary wasn’t the cosiest of places either, but this was literally a cesspool. Bah.

She took a few steps through the graveyard, her eyes going across the headstones until they stopped at that one engraved stone block she’d sat in front of every time she’d been allowed outside, before her mother died.

There were no flowers on the grave, only weeds. The headstone itself was in poor repair. How could it not be, with no one there to care about it?

 _RELVIG MAERSL_ , said the lettering on the stone. _FALLEN IN DEFENCE OF THE HOMELAND_. And in smaller letters, _husband, beloved by Hordis_ and _father, beloved by Siari_.

Tch. ‘Beloved’. She hadn’t even known the man. She’d spent a lot of time at this headstone, first wishing she’d gotten to know him, then being angry with him for leaving them, then being even angrier for not being there when her mother had her problems, then being even more angry for being as dead as her mother now was, and getting her sent to the orphanage, and finally deciding not to care about this person one way or the other.

He wasn’t her father, or a soldier, or someone she wished she’d known.

He was just some guy.

She couldn’t wait to be outside this shit pit of a city. But she couldn’t leave yet. There was something she still needed to do. Another regular job (believe it or not, huh Astrid), but it had to wait until nightfall. Taking a room at the inn was pointless (she certainly didn’t intend to stay the night in this festering pustule), so she spent the day outside of the city, taking a walk and looking at the horses in the stable just outside the city. When night fell, she entered the city again and bought a meat skewer at one of the stands, eating it as she sat on a bench, with the orphanage across the street, glaring at it as she ate, hating the rotten building from the deepest of her heart. She remembered hearing the bonking of flesh and bone on wood as Grelod grabbed a child by the shirt and pushed it off the stairs. It was Grelod’s preferred punishment, and she loved saying that kids were resilient anyway so they weren’t _really_ hurt when she did it. A few had broken bones from the falls, and one, a young boy not older than ten, had simply landed at the foot of the stairs and never moved again. She remembered seeing him at the foot of the stairs, one leg twisted into an awkward position, and blood trickling from his ear. Tragic accident, Grelod had told the guardsmen who’d come to remove the body. They didn’t investigate. The Thieves’ Guild was running rampant in their city, stealing from rich fatheads, so who cared about a raggedy orphan? They didn’t give a shit about kids being chucked down the stairs, or caned across the ass in front of everyone, or forced to stand in the freezing cold for hours on end, with nothing but ragged linen, trying to collect a septim or two for the ‘maintenance of the orphanage’. They didn’t give a crap about children being sold off to rapists and whoremasters, not even if they turned up dead, abused and with signs of torture. There were rich people to protect from the Guild’s cheekiness, after all. They’d fished one of her friends, a Redguard girl, out of the water with unspeakable injuries in unspeakable places, and ruled it accidental drowning. Twelve-year-old girls drown all the time, was their reasoning.

Only one person seemed to have cared at one point, the Thieves’ Guild woman who’d helped her escape. Said she’d lost her entire family as well, and though she’d never been stuck in the orphanage, she knew it might as well have been her in there, being treated like vermin by Grelod and her buyers. Siari hadn’t seen her since she’d escaped, but she hoped she was alright.

Her meat skewer finished, she flicked the stick away, towards the orphanage. The place was empty ever since Grelod got murdered (strangely, that death _had_ apparently been investigated, she’d heard), but where the children were now, she had no idea. It didn’t matter. Any place was better than there.

Nobody had cared about her back then, and she no longer cared about anyone now, including her mark. It was getting late, around midnight, and it was time to strike. Nazir had included a map indicating where the mark lived. Siari didn’t know who had ordered the murder, and she frankly didn’t care. Probably petty squabbles, as it always were in this town.

She followed the map towards the house. Best time would be now, as the mark got ready for bed. She saw a candle burn in a room on the top floor. Casting a furtive glance over the empty streets, she snapped the latch off one of the shutters, let it creak open, and slithered inside.

The lower floor was dark, and she’d landed in the kitchen. A table stood in the corner, and there was a single bowl on it, oatmeal porridge clinging to the sides. Crossed swords hung above the arch that led to the living room. She made her way there, still quiet as a mouse.

The sound of a woman singing came down from the staircase. It wasn’t terrible, but still pretty off key. She stopped as one of the stairs creaked, but the singing didn’t stop, so she crept on, hearing the sound of water gently splashing. She was on the landing now, her dagger out. Creeping towards the light that came from the bathroom, where the singing was.

Without a sound, she kneeled by the door jamb and peered inside, looking at the back of a woman with long blonde hair, sitting in a bath tub. When her arms came up to soap her hair, they looked powerful and muscled. Siari swallowed. This mark wasn’t defenceless. It had to be fast and unnoticed. She had to wait for the right time.

The head went down and knees came up as the woman rinsed her hair, the powerful arms going back and forth as they wiped the soap out. The knees went down and the head came up again, and the singing resumed, an old folk love song, still off-key.

Water splashed again as the entire body came out of the water, the muscles across the woman’s back and buttocks glinting as the candlelight reflected off them. There were numerous scars as well, further making it clear to Siari that this wasn’t a defenceless beggar. Still, she’d killed her type before, feeling the powerful bodies kick and buck in her arms as they died, their bodies against hers. This would be no different.

Siari withdrew her head as the woman stepped out of the tub, reaching for a towel. The singing resumed, and listening intently, Siari could hear which way her mark was facing. When the sound became at its most dampened, Siari stuck her head back in, seeing the woman stand in front of the window, drying herself. The window looked out on the canal, and on a blind wall on the opposite side, so she could stand naked in front of it safely.

Only this time, it wasn’t safe for her, but for Siari.

This was the time. Siari crept inside, holding her dagger ready. She tiptoed around the bathtub, her boots making no sound.

The woman stood in front of the window, singing softly, drying her hair, the locks pulled to one side, and over her shoulder, so she could dry them with both hands.

Siari came closer.

The woman shook her head, letting her blonde hair fall over her shoulders and onto her back again, and began drying her arms.

Siari raised her arm and the world shrunk to just her and the mark, and her power to end its life.

Her body uncoiled like a spring, and her knife came down, an explosive rush going through her as she heard the first wet click of the blade piercing the mark’s wet, pale skin, the sharp steel severing blood vessels, ripping tendons and muscles as it, along with Siari, became the ultimate power in all of creation: the power to end life.

A shock went through the woman, but before she could even move, Siari’s arm had begun pumping, ramming the knife into her back again and again, blood spurting from the wounds, mixing with the bathwater on her body as locks of blonde hair flitted down, severed by the knife that severed the thread of her life.

Siari stabbed and stabbed again, her fist, and the knife in it, ramming down again and again, puncturing the naked woman’s back, shoulders, and a few stabs even went into the back of her skull. The woman stood there, unable to even defend herself, her arms spread, jolting from every shock that went through her, every stab that went inside her, blood running down her legs and pooling around her bare feet, making a puddle on the floor she would never again walk on. Blood spattered into Siari’s face, against the walls, the cupboards, in the water of the bathtub, and across the mirror that would never reflect her face again.

Only when her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor did Siari stop stabbing.

She stood over the body, her knife still in her hand, panting from the exertion and the rush of power. This woman had been mighty, proud and terrifying to her enemies. And she’d had no chance against Siari, who had ended her life over and over again. She’d died naked, alone and unable to defend herself. Probably not a bad person (bad people don’t tend to sing in the bath tub), but Siari just didn’t care.

The pool of blood underneath the body expanded as the woman bled out, and Siari felt the rush fade, until all what was left, was the realization that she didn’t feel bad over killing, and that that was not normal. There should be some sort of guilt, some sort of empathy with her victim, with this woman who’d died alone and naked, not even knowing why, or not even knowing who’d killed her. But there was none of that. Nobody had cared about her in the orphanage, and now she cared about nobody.

And this, this was just a carcass that needed to be disposed of. The contractor had stipulated that the body had to be found floating in the canal, so that was what was going to happen. Good thing this woman had decided to die in the bathroom, where there was a window overlooking the water. Having to drag her across town would have been, well, a drag.

Ignoring the metallic smell of blood and the acrid stench of urine, Siari hooked her hands under the cooling body’s armpits, bent her legs and tried to lift her up. The corpse came off the ground, but Siari’s muscles howled in exertion.

She’d have to throw her out the window in stages. Dismembering was likely to be forbidden, so she’d have to haul the corpse over the windowsill somehow. Grunting as her muscles tensed, Siari got the woman’s torso off the ground, and lifted it as high as she could, letting go in direction of the window. The two arms went through, as did the head, the collarbones striking the wood, and now the carcass hung half-outside, slumped over the windowsill, the arms and head hanging out, the rest inside, draped in the window like a piece of meat.

Siari stuck her arms under the woman’s belly, feeling the hard abdominal muscles against her forearms, and growled again, jerking the body to the side, getting it a bit further. Another exertion, and the entire ribcage was through.

Then all it took was a casual lift of the ankles and over it went, plummeting down and hitting the water with a loud splash.

Bubbles still rose from the canal when Siari had left the house and looked over the railing.

Then she ran for the alleys, took off her mask, washed the blood off at a pump, and casually strolled out of the city, happy to leave the stink pool behind.


	34. Roë: Prophet

  **ROË**

**Prophet**

**Castle Volkihar, throne room**

 

It was as if the surface was somehow alive. Hungry, and yet abundant at the same time. The red mirror of the liquid in the Bloodstone Chalice was still, but it gave the impression of somehow undulating, as if below the still and clear surface, there was a dark red, evil presence roiling and pulsating.

Serana had opened her veins, dripping some blood into the Chalice to mix with the uncanny liquid from the Bloodspring, and this had been the result. The profaned spring’s slop had been ‘purified’, Lord Harkon had said, and now the Bloodstone Chalice was filled with empowering, potent vampiric essence. He’d drunk from it first, a contented expression on his face. Serana had declined, but Roë hadn’t dared to. And hadn’t cared enough either. She was a Vampire now, like it or not, and as she’d told herself when accepting the Vampire Lord’s first offer, she was damned either way, might as well be damned without being weak to boot.

Serana’s face was reassuring, and Harkon’s grin was all but encouraging, so she brought the Chalice to her lips and drank just one mouthful. It was sticky, sweet and potent. Not blood but very similar, and Roë immediately felt a sort of greedy power take hold of her.

_With the Blood of the Ancients empowering you, you can now drain others’ life force from afar, ripping their life energy from their bodies to heal your wounds and power your magick. Your very will becomes a life-claiming conduit._

Again the voice. She wondered who it was, but at the same time, she knew. The voice was female and childlike, but its owner was neither, and far more terrible.

“We have become even more powerful,” Lord Harkon told her with a grin. “As I have, you have heard the voice. And yet,” he said, “we still have one great enemy. One thing to fear.”

“The Dawnguard?” Roë asked.

Harkon held up a finger. “Close. But even they will be powerless against us if we eliminate the greatest threat of all.” He raised his voice. “Modhna!”

“Yes, Lord?” Harkon’s servant stepped forward. She’d been at a distance so as not to overhear the conversation.

“Call everyone together in the atrium.”

She bowed curtly. “At once, my Lord.”

To Serana and Roë, he said, with a winning smile, “I wish to make an announcement, and you two shall stand beside me. Come.”

They followed Lord Harkon back from the throne room to the balcony overlooking the atrium, where more and more of the inhabitants of the Castle assembled. Roë felt extremely uncomfortable standing next to (but of course slightly behind) the Lord of the Castle, but Serana gave her a reassuring look and a nod that said, _you’re nobility now._

“My loyal scions of the night,” Harkon began abruptly, not even waiting for the hubbub to die down. It instantly did as soon as he spoke. “Hear my words! The time of prophecy is upon us!”

Roë had to suppress a grin when she wondered how many times those particular words had been used in Skyrim. Did they surprise anyone anymore?

“Soon we will claim dominion over our greatest enemy: the Sun itself! We will forge a new realm of eternal darkness. Now that I have reclaimed one of my Elder Scrolls, we must find a Moth Priest to read it.”

Oh right. No one could read the Elder Scrolls, and those that tried were struck instantly blind. Only the Moth Priests could read them, and even their eyesight often did not survive a single reading. But the Sun? Harkon knew of a way to darken the Sun? Much as her body would welcome it, the thought seemed so... final to her. She knew she’d never be able to see the sun again, but darkening it forever... just made it certain.

“I have spread false rumours about the discovery of an Elder Scroll in Skyrim to lure a Moth Priest here,” Harkon went on. “I have no doubt that one is in our lands as we speak. So my instructions to you: go forth, and search the land for a Moth Priest within our borders. Travel to the cities. Speak to innkeepers, carriage drivers, stable owners, guardsmen. Anyone who would meet travellers. Go, this is my command.”

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the assembled Vampires responded to the order.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Harkon imparted to his flock. “There are... reports that the legendary Dragonborn has been discovered. Even more worrisome, it seems this Dovahkiin was seen fighting alongside Dawnguard squads to exterminate nests of our mongrel kin. Be extremely wary.”

That was bad news, if it was true. The Dragonborn was supposed to be a mighty hero of prophecy, with the dragons’ power of Shouting, being able to set people on fire, freeze them into blocks, or send them flying simply by voice. If this was more than just gossip, this might pose a serious problem for them. Still, Roë felt so powerful she wondered if there was anything in the world, apart from the Aedra, Daedra and Lord Harkon, who could ever be a match for her.

“I would have a word with you two as well,” Harkon said quietly. Ensuring no one could hear, he told them, “The errands I’ve sent my subordinates on are not the ones that have the most chance of finding a Moth Priest.”

Serana crossed her arms and cocked her head. “But you’ve doubtless saved that for us? I assume it’ll be something dangerous again?”

Harkon chuckled. “I have, and it is not. It requires a short trip to the College of Winterhold. My sources tell me a Moth Priest resides there, or has passed there recently. If he has, I suggest speaking to the librarian. It’s impossible that a Moth Priest would stay at the College without visiting the library.” He placed one hand on each of their shoulders. “Can I depend on you for this?”

“Certainly father,” Serana said, not without sarcasm. “After all, what better way to make your daughter feel welcome than to send her on errands, one after the other.”

“Child, child...” Harkon soothed. “I understand how you feel. But this is necessary. When this is done, things will settle down, I promise. I’m sending you on these important missions because you are the only one I can truly depend on.”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Come on, Roë,” Serana said, bitterness in her voice. “Let’s go find my father a Moth Priest.”

“Yes, Lady Roë. I am counting on you to keep my beloved daughter safe.”

That was probably the only reason he’d given her such power, Roë realized.

When they were away from Lord Harkon’s influence, Serana’s good cheer returned instantly. “I wonder if we’d find it funny if we came to the College and got attacked by your former Dawnguard friends, including this Dragonborn character.”

“I don’t think I’d be amused,” Roë said, pushing the boat out. The icy cold of the water hurt her ankles, and yet, it wasn’t colder than the rest of her. “If it’s true, we’d be pretty much cacked. I mean, we’d be talking about some kind of prophesied hero with, like... the power of dragons. Don’t think it’s someone I’d want to mess with, if I can help it.”

Serana blew. “Pft. I don’t think a lot of people will have a prayer against you now that you’re... well, nobility, shall we say.”

“I don’t know,” Roë said, hopping in the boat and grabbing an oar. “Don’t feel like finding out. If it’s true.” Maybe she did. She couldn’t kill herself, but perhaps the Dragonborn would do her a service by destroying her. But that wasn’t an option right now. Serana needed her. Or maybe it was the other way around.

They rowed, came ashore at the other end of the strait, and set out for the College. It was on the northern shoreline, past Dawnstar (the village she’d almost made it to) and to the north-eastern end of Skyrim. It wasn’t that long a walk, and they only had to spend one day in a cave, sealed away from the world, before they made it to Winterhold, the small hamlet home to a big College. It was only one road with a few hovels planted on either side, but the College itself seemed significant enough: broad granite steps led to a bridge, and the bridge in turn led to a large building set on an island just off the coast. Certainly looked like a defensible place. And since it contained a slew of mages, even more so.

They went up the snow-covered steps and were stopped by an Altmer woman, clearly a mage from the looks of her. “Greetings. This is the College of Winterhold. Have you come to study magick?”

Serana chuckled. “ _Not_ exactly.”

“We’re here for the library,” Roë said flatly.

“I see,” the Elven woman said. “I’m afraid the College is mages-only, so unless you are – ”

She was cut off by the sight of the big, sharp icicle slowly spinning in the air between Serana’s fingers, the tip aimed straight at the woman’s face. Icy vapours wafted from the sharp piece of frozen water.

“Ah. I... I see,” the Altmer stammered, clearly impressed by the ease, speed and control with which Serana had summoned the icicle and made it rotate without launching it. Serana’s face had an impatient look. “Er, yes. Yes, I suppose that... makes for an efficient demonstration. Please, proceed.”

To gild the lily, Serana, from the same hand, produced a small but scorching cone of yellow flame, that melted the icicle away in mere seconds, her face still annoyed with the delay.

“Uh, yes... yes, impressive. Two elements at the same time. From... one hand. It’s... remarkable. Please, be welcome.”

“Thanks,” Roë said as the woman stood aside. She didn’t really mean it.

“Showed her good,” Serana grinned as they crossed the bridge. She’d clearly had more pleasure in it than she’d shown. “’Here to study magick’, what a joke.”

Yes, these mages were probably amateurs compared to Serana and her countless years of training. She was getting back into her own, Roë saw, the magick coming more easily and looking more powerful. She wondered how mighty Serana really would be when she was back to full strength. Vampire Lady or no, she still never wanted to go up against Serana. How could she ever want that. And she was sure she’d never have to either, so the train of thought was a stupid one.

“This looks like it cost a pretty penny,” Serana remarked when they found themselves in the courtyard, a round plane set with columns, a luminous blue font in the middle, bubbling ethereally with magickal power.

“Yeah, they didn’t spare a septim or two,” Roë muttered, looking around the place.

“Visitors?” one of the mages greeted them with a curious look. It was a Dunmer, dressed in a robe, with a hood. His hair looked ginger in colour, strange for a dark elf. “Welcome to the College. Are you here for lessons? Or research?” He paused for a moment. “Yes, you are clearly fellow mages. Research then?”

Serana nodded, and Roë said, “We’re looking for your librarian. We have... uh, research questions he might be able to help us with.”

“Certainly. The library is inside. When you’ve passed the double doors, head right, up the stairs. Urag gro-Shub will gladly assist you.” He changed his mind. “I’ll walk you there, if I may.”

“Sure,” Serana said, “That’d be nice.”

The mage led them inside, into the atrium, an enormous hall, also round. In the middle stood a mage with long white hair and a white beard, holding his hand out in front of him, a small object in his palm. As Serana and Roë looked up, the orb in his palm bounced upwards, and with a loud _clack-clack-clack_ sound, expanded into a crackling orb of glowing magickal energy, bathing the atrium in a bright light.

The old man had staggered back from the surprise, and now let out a high-pitched, “Oh my!”

“Excuse me,” the Dunmer escort said. “I should go see what just happened. Up these stairs, see Urag gro-Shub.” He made to leave, then checked, “Oh, and by all means stay the night, there’s guest rooms in the west wing. Be sure to enjoy a nice dinner in our refectory too.” With that, he hurried off to the ball of glowing energy, around which more and more mages gathered, their jaws slack.

“Wonder if he was someone important,” Serana muttered quietly.

“Probably not,” Roë said. “Just some random student or something.”

“Come on, library. Let’s go find this priest. Oh, and we should stay and have dinner. If those Dawnguard bucketheads are looking for us, we can’t arouse suspicion.”

“We uh, might arouse more suspicion by actually having dinner and _not_ eating it,” Roë pointed out, but Serana simply shrugged.

“You can still eat, it’ll just make you feel really unwell.”

“Oh. Well that’s a big relief then.”

They ascended the stairs, and when they emerged into the big library, a massive room with shelves stacked to the ceiling with books, Roë heard herself comment flatly, “there’s the librarian. And he’s an Orc.”

“I heard that, you impertinent flower-sniffer,” the librarian called back. He was an Orc alright, though with a long white beard, tied together with rings. “I’m also an Orc with excellent hearing.”

Briefly, the urge welled up in Roë to threaten, _and what are you going to do about it, greenskin,_ but she repressed the impulse and instead just said, “Well. It’s unusual, isn’t it?”

What had that sudden burst of anger been about? It wasn’t like her, even after her change.

“Unusual for you, maybe,” the Orc grunted. “For me an Orcish librarian is a daily occurrence.”

“Forgive my friend’s rather tactless and hastily chosen words,” Serana fixed the situation. “We’ve had a long journey and fatigue does no wonders for people’s sense of courtesy.”

“Seems so,” the Orc retorted. “So, you have business here?”

“We do as it happens,” Serana said, stepping forward and taking the lead in the conversation. “We’re looking for a sage. Found some old text pertaining to the Elder Scrolls and figured a Moth Priest should take a look at it. And who better to ask where to find a Moth Priest than the chief librarian of the College of Winterhold?”

The Orc harrumphed. “Your flattery is transparent, but at least you make the effort.” He began pointlessly rearranging papers on his desk, as people are wont to do when they are uncomfortable. “A Moth Priest, you say? And why should I tell you, provided I’ve even seen one?”

“We’re not asking for your books or your money here,” Roë said, irritated. “Just some information.”

“Information leading, maybe, to a better understanding of the whereabouts of the Elder Scrolls,” Serana added. “Something which would benefit everyone, especially the College.”

“You won’t mind my seeing this text, would you?” the Orc asked with a sneer, his tusks even barer than normal. Figured he’d ask that.

“I could,” Serana answered playfully, “but then I’d have to kill you.” When the Orc’s frown deepened and he reached for something behind his counter, Serana quickly laughed and said, “Come on, that was obviously a joke.”

“Look,” Roë said with a sharp sigh. “We just want to talk to him. That’s all.”

“And please, accept this donation for your library. It has plenty of books, but it can always use more, can’t it?” Serana placed a heavy bag of gold on the table. From the size and weight, it looked to be at least a thousand septims. Of course, what was mere gold for people who ‘lived’ forever? Castle Volkihar doubtless had well-filled coffers.

The ‘donation’ did not miss its effect, and the Orc looked at the bag, stroking his white beard. “I... suppose there’s no harm in telling you. The Moth Priest is on his way to Dragon Bridge. Supposed to be some important documents in the library there.” With a snort, he added, “a pitiful little cubbyhole of a library, but there you go.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to this enormous vault of knowledge,” Serana said with a smile. Once again, Roë realized how utterly disarming she was. Never said a wrong thing, never did a wrong move. It was like she was always in control of every situation.

“Indeed!” the Orc replied, blind to the flattery this time. “The very notion is absurd, but then, no one ever said Moth Priests can always be counted on to make rational decisions.”

“I hear you,” Serana said. “I’m not even sure he’ll be able to help us, if he’s that dim-witted.”

“Quite. The library thanks you for the generous donation, madam.” With that, he made the bag disappear under the counter.

With a confident smile, Serana said, “Always happy to further the pursuit of knowledge. Now, let us pursue some knowledge of our own.”

So they had a location. Good. Dragon Bridge wasn’t _that_ far off, they could probably get there by nightfall tomorrow if they gave this place the laugh. There was no reason to stay, in Roë’s eyes, but as they walked down the stairs it turned out Serana thought differently.

“Since we’re in a good place for clean and safe blood,” she said, taking Roë aside in a corridor, “why don’t we pop your...” her eyebrows flicked up, “... cherry.”

“You mean...”

Serana nodded, with a lewd leer. “Your first live victim.”

It was about time. She’d have to learn sooner or later, and she felt that despite her power, the animal blood didn’t suffice to really invigorate her. She needed more and though the thought repulsed her, it excited her as well. “It’s scary but... Can’t put it off forever, can I?”

“No,” Serana said. “Gotta jump into the deep end sooner or later. And this is the College, blood will be clean here. No diseases or inferior vintages.”

“You’ll be with me right? Make sure I don’t...?”

Serana shook her head. “Can’t. Interrupting a vampire during feeding is one of the worst things you can do. If I tried to stop you, you’d go berserk and try to kill me, not even realizing what you’re doing. We’d probably trash half this College before one of us bites the dust.”

“Really? So I have to do this... alone?”

She nodded. “Way it has to be.”

“Alright, so... how do we do it?”

“Well, the feeding will be easy,” Serana said, “just bare those little fangs and feed. Don’t worry, even if you weren’t squad chief of the guard, it’ll come naturally.”

“Yes, but, I mean...?”

“The framework? Tch, easy. Just look for a guy who’s only after one thing. Those are the easiest targets. You’re cute, or at least you would be if you didn’t frown all the time, so you won’t have much trouble.” Serana looked her up and down in the gloom of the unused corridor. “Though I might suggest two oranges in your shirt.”

“Hey!”

“Come on,” Serana grunted, pulling Roë’s collar down. She wasn’t wearing her breastplate, the straps had snapped after all, just a tunic, and Serana pulled at the collar so it exposed some cleavage. Well insofar as her small tits could produce cleavage of any kind. “Let’s get you showing a bit more skin. And let’s try getting your seduction act in order. You’ll need it, trust me. Go on, show me your moves.”

Feeling Serana’s fingers against her skin was strangely pleasant, ice cold as they were.

Without realizing what she was doing, Roë did what Serana asked. She lifted her head and caressed Serana’s hair. “I... I want you to...”

“Yes?” Serana asked enthusiastically. “Want me to what?”

“Take me to a private place, and...”

“Yeees?” Serana asked, sounding sultry, bringing her face closer. Were they still practicing?

“And...” just saying it felt like it sent warmth through Roë’s cold body, “... take my clothes off.”

Abruptly, Serana pulled back, and in a perfectly normal voice said, “Well. You don’t need to go _that_ far, just taking them somewhere private is usually enough. But the promise of clothes being taken off should be a potent motivator, yes. Love the nervous innocent doe act, perfect!”

Right. So they had been just practicing. For a moment there it had felt like something more. “Well I just thought... you know, that it might work better.”

“Yes,” Serana said. “It does. Just... well, you don’t actually have to... you know.”

“No, no, of course not,” she felt her little laugh gallop with nervousness and disappointment and hoped Serana didn’t notice. But she’d noticed it in herself alright. Then again, it could just be nervousness at faking the whole flirting thing.

“Right,” Serana said. “Now that we’ve got you a bit sexied up, let’s get to the refectory. We’ll find a guy there who just runs after his dick. Trust me, I can spot them from a mile away. That kind of man, they... deserve it. The kind that lies about their motivations. The ones that don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“I thought we weren’t going to harm them?”

“We’re not,” Serana said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t prefer guilty victims over innocent ones.”

“I... guess.”

“Come on, let’s sign into the guest registry or whatever, and grab a bite to eat. Remember, we can’t arouse suspicion, so we’ll have to eat at least _something_. Or hide it in our frocks, but that might not work for all the seducing.”

“No. Wouldn’t want our meatballs to fall out when we’re about to grab our prey.”

“Exactly.”

They left the corridor, went to the guest wing and signed in, paying a few septims for the room. The College drastically undercut the rate of the inns, but then again, not every yokel could come bunk here. After dumping their stuff in the guest rooms, they descended to the refectory, Serana giving one final bit of advice, “Oh, and don’t worry about having to do stuff with them. Once the fangs sink in, and you drink, they’ll just fall asleep. Shouldn’t have had so much wine etcetera, you know.”

“Right.”

She frowned sourly. “Not gonna take my advice about the oranges?”

“I’ll give you an orange upside the head if you don’t stop insulting my womanhood.”

“You could, but I don’t think it’d work wonders for our seduction teamwork, me sitting there with a half-squashed orange on my head.”

“Yes, well...”

The refectory was a moderate-sized hall, with tables set in lines against each other. The chairs looked functional but not very comfortable. On the far side, behind a counter, stood a corpulent Redguard, stirring pots and flipping meat. The smell of the food, which would usually make Roë ravenous, now nauseated her.

“C’mon, get something to eat. Anything.”

“Ladies,” the portly Redguard called out cheerily when he saw the two women (or what he thought were women) approach his massive stove. The thing was kept lit with strange blue-green flames, probably magicka at work. “Something to still your hunger on this cold night?”

“Yes, thank you,” Serana said, equally enthusiastically, taking a plate and holding it out. “I’ll have some stew, please.”

“Absolutely,” the cook singsonged, sploshing a ladleful of the brown stew on her plate. Roë didn’t have the energy to be cheerful, she simply felt nauseated. The stew would have been wonderful if she’d been alive and now all it did was revolt her. It looked and smelled like shit slapped on a plate.

Still, she croaked, “I’ll have the same please,” earning her another splat of crap stew.

“Nevermind my friend,” Serana said with a lovely smile. “She’s tired from the trip. Feeling a little ill.”

Roë wished Serana didn’t always have to apologize in her place.

“Not to worry,” the cook laughed. “Your eyes look hungry enough though.”

Yeah, Roë bet they did.

She sat down with Serana. The only person still in the refectory was a female Argonian. Obviously a terrible target. Roë didn’t hesitate to make that known.

“I know,” Serana said. “But patience always gets you dinner. It’s all about waiting.”

And no sooner did Serana’s words leave her mouth, than a person entered the room. A Nord, from the looks of him. Rather young as far as Roë could tell under the cowl.

“Hmmm,” Serana gauged. “Looks promising so far.”

From what Roë could tell, yes it did.

The young man strode to the stoves, passing by Roë and Serana, who had strategically positioned themselves to be in the path of every new arrival on his way to the stoves.

“Oh, hello,” he said, slowing his step. “Haven’t seen you here before. New students?”

Serana gave another of her disarming smiles, leaning slightly towards him, her chin on her wrists. “No, visitors. Doing research.”

“Oh. Anything I could help with?”

“Depends,” Serana said, still looking painfully seductive. “What is your field of... expertise?”

Roë noticed that he was wearing a heavy type of reinforced mail under his cloak. Seemed not all mages were squishy and limp-wristed. Hunger made her throat go dry. He was handsome enough, if a bit baby-faced. That was good, because it made the seduction routine more credible.

“Just a moment,” the Nord said with a smile, briefly ordering a roast crab leg from the cook and returning, sitting at their table without being asked to. Cocky, but it meant their ploy was working.

“Right. Well, I’m just an apprentice, really. Not sure if I’ll be any help?”

“I’m sure you can be,” Serana said, and Roë winced when she put a spoonful of shit stew in her mouth and chewed and swallowed like it was nothing. “We’re looking for a Moth Priest, but I think we’ve got a pretty good lead, so we’re just here taking a load off. Chewing the fat a bit. Though, maybe a tour would be nice?”

Good thinking, Serana. Make them drop their guard with an innocent question.

“Wish I had the time,” the Nord answered, “but I’ve got an early class. Tomorrow evening, maybe?”

“That’s alright,” Roë said, trying to take a more active part. “But you’ll sit with us for a bit longer, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said. “Was feeling a bit embarrassed just sitting down without an invitation. Don’t want you to think I’m a creep or anything.”

Serana’s smile never disappeared. “Don’t worry, we don’t.” Although Roë knew Serana hoped he would be.

“Good,” he said, finishing his crab leg. “Let’s hope one of my fellow students doesn’t think so either.”

This time, Serana’s smile did weaken, and her eyebrows lowered slightly. “How’s that?”

He leaned in. “I’ve uh, got a bit of a crush on Brelyna, one of the other students, but I don’t want her to think I have... you know, bad intentions.”

“Ah,” Serana said, and Roë knew she was the only one who could see her disappointment for what it was. “Well, you should introduce her to us some time.”

“I will.” He got up and touched the brim of his cowl. “Well, ladies, I really should go to bed. Name’s Onmund, by the way.

Serana pointed at herself, then to Roë. “Morgiah and Akorithi. Pleasure.”

“Likewise. Perhaps we’ll run into each other tomorrow?”

Serana smiled again, a different smile this time. “Perhaps.”

“He was no good,” Roë grunted at Serana as the Nord walked away.

“No good at all. Balls, the one man we see in this damn refectory at this hour and it has to be some kind of golden-hearted romantic.”

“And what was with the fake names?”

“Just being careful.”

Being overdramatic, more like. “Let’s just go. There’ll be other occ – ”

Serana shut her up by putting her hand on her shouder. “This one. Oh, so much this one.”

The man who came in was a young Imperial, with sand-coloured curly hair and an arrogant look on his face. He tried to hide it, but he was clearly looking for Serana and Roë. When he saw them, he quickly looked away, as if he hadn’t noticed them.

“Yes,” Roë said, “I think this one’s going to be the one.”

“Has to be.”

The man pretended not to notice them, went to get a plate filled, and then acted surprised to see them. “Evening ladies,” he said, trying to flash a winning smile but only succeeding at looking like a complete jerk. Serana quickly exchanged a glance with Roë. “Mind if I join you? Eating alone is so alone.”

Roë knew instantly that this guy was bad news, but Serana, as always, smiled and said, “It’s your Guild, you sit wherever you like.”

“Well, in that case, wherever I like is here,” the man said, trying to project an aura of unflappability. His way of acting made Roë feel particularly uncomfortable. She’d known this type in life too, and she knew what they wanted. But this time, this was what _they_ wanted too.

Still, he repulsed her on a visceral level, and she was having serious doubts about taking this one as a victim. “Shouldn’t we...” she asked, but Serana cut her off, “No, no. It’s alright. We can have a chat. Get acquainted with some of the Guild people.”

He was looking at their eyes, seeing that something was wrong, but not knowing what. Roë hoped he didn’t see, because she didn’t want to have to fight her way out of this place.

“Can I interest anyone in some more wine?” he asked, clearly going for the standard tactic of ‘get them drunk and have your way with them’. He repulsed Roë even more.

“No thank you,” Serana said, still with her friendly smile, thankfully sparing their stomachs from wine. “We’re good. Don’t want a hangover tomorrow.”

He seemed to remember himself, and his leer briefly faded. “Oh, forgive me I’ve been rude. Name’s Acrus Vadosus. Student at the College, but... probably not for long.”

“Why not for long?” Roë asked. If this guy was on the verge of being booted from the College, that would make it easier to isolate him. If she even wanted to, because right now, she didn’t.

“Oh, I’m not about to get kicked out or anything,” Acrus said quickly. “But I’m working on something, with the lecturers, that might, well... make me eligible for quicker advancement.”

“Really?” Serana asked, leaning back in her chair, switching tactics to flattery. “Feel like sharing?”

“I would,” the guy admitted, “but I’ve been instructed not to talk about it.”

As if. He probably thought he’d make more of an impression if he acted like it was a closely guarded secret, and thus very important.

“I can respect that,” Serana said, acting impressed. “My name is Serana, this is Roë.”

Hm, no silly pseudonyms this time.

“Pleasure to meet you, Serana. Roë.”

“And you, Acrus,” Serana said to him. Roë supposed she might as well nod back. Behind them, the cook turned off his stoves and began cleaning up.

“May I ask what brings your charming persons to our Guild?” the narcissistic lecher asked.

Thankfully, Serana replied, “You certainly can, but I fear we have to give you the same answer. We’re not at liberty to talk about it.”

“And I, in turn, can respect that too.”

Apprehensive as she was about the man, Roë felt her hunger intensify, and she knew it was visible in her eyes. But let it be visible, he’d just think it was a different kind of hunger.

And see it he did, visibly needing effort to stick to his patient strategy. “Well, can you at least tell me where you’re from?”

“Certainly. I’m from a castle just off the shore, all the way North.”

“Ah. The both of you?”

“No,” Roë said, wondering if it was a good idea to share the information, but deciding it wouldn’t do much harm in the end. “I’m from Solitude originally.” She briefly looked at Serana and stuck with a neutral, “Was with the Guard. Then took up bodyguarding.”

“Ah,” the young man said back. “Yes I suppose the increase in pay alone would make that a worthwhile choice.”

No. No, it wasn’t a choice, much less worthwhile. “It was... more a matter of necessity.”

He was focusing entirely on her now. “And the bodyguarding life finding you well?”

Roë could do no better than shrug and say, “It’s alright.” It wasn’t alright, the bodyguarding life. The bodyguarding was fine, but it was the ‘life’ part that stung.

“And where’d you blow in from, Acrus?” Serana shifted the focus back to him. “This College doesn’t seem like a place where babies are born.”

“No, I came from the Imperial Province. Was a bit tired of the way they practiced magick there.” Roë saw Serana raise an eyebrow to make him explain. “I don’t know. Too bookish. Repeating gestures and words over and over and over again. The magick here is much more... primal, to put a word to it. You feel the weave and you pluck the threads you need, weave them into a spell, and you’re casting magick. In Cyrodiil, you have to practice finger-gestures for a year before you’re even allowed to _look_ at a spellbook.”

Oh, get over yourself.

“I see,” Serana said, leaning back in her chair, relentlessly continuing her scheme of letting him think he was seducing her. “You’re a man of instincts rather than book smarts?”

He chuckled. “Well, I like to think I’m both. Just my way of actually practicing magick is more suited to Skyrim than Cyrodiil. Just wish the weather was better.”

“Oh, you and me both,” she responded. Despite her gut reaction to the man, Roë felt her hunger mount. It would soon win out over her dislike of him. She saw his eyes briefly linger on Serana’s breasts and hoped Serana wouldn’t overdo it so he’d only be interested in her.

“Yes, the weather here certainly isn’t like Cyrodiil,” the guy continued on what he thought was a winning streak. “I prefer a nice little sun, so you can go for a swim. Riverbank weather, you know?”

“M-hm. I know. Lovely, isn’t it?” Serana said.

This prompted Roë to give Serana a mystified look. Serana? Thinking the sun was great weather. Roë knew lying was part of it, but Serana was really going all-in on this one.

The College student had to reach for his glass of wine, probably because he needed to quench his crude fantasies. Roë would have shuddered if she was still human.

Instead, she got a look from Serana, first at her, then at her plate. Roë knew what she meant. Her plate had been untouched, the stew sitting on it like a cooling pile of shit.

She supposed she’d have to. With a lot of reluctance, she took up a spoonful of horker stew and stuck it in her mouth. Y’ffre it even tasted like shit! She didn’t chew, just swallowed it down as it was, feeling the putrescence slide down her throat and into her stomach, where it sat and pulsated like the stinking filth that it was, making her grimace from the nausea and cramps in her belly. For a moment, she thought it’d come back up and she’d retch it all out on the table, but she kept it down.

“Is something wrong with the food?” the guy asked, clearly putting on a concerned act. “Would you like me to bring you something else?”

“No, no,” Serana answered in her stead. “Roë is just a fussy eater.”

“Are you sure? It’s no effort.”

“No. No thank you,” she croaked, feeling horrible. “I’ve uh... got some trouble eating after bruising my abdominal muscles yesterday.” It was an explanation. Not the best, but it was one.

“I think I’ll retire now,” Serana said abruptly, rising from her chair.

What? Was she going to leave her all alone? Just like that? “What?” she heard herself blurt out. “But weren’t we, I mean...” She stopped herself before saying some very wrong things. The college boy was as surprised as she was, and she did enjoy the look on his face as he realized he wouldn’t be running his dirty hands up and down Serana’s ivory skin tonight.

“No,” Serana said. “I’ll... leave you two to it.” Oh cack, now it was clear what Serana had been doing. She’d been deliberately giving the guy the impression that Roë was his consolation prize, that she had warmed him up, and that he’d now have to make do with ‘just’ Roë. And since she’d got his expectations so high, he wouldn’t be able to say ‘no’ to plain and unwomanly Roë. So now the guy was stuck with her even though he’d probably hoped to give it to her tonight. She was a damn consolation prize. She wanted to hate Serana for it, but she realized she’d never be able to do what Serana did, at least not on her own.

To make it even worse, Serana couldn’t resist saying, “Make sure he’s fit for lectures tomorrow,” before walking to the guest quarters. She felt like meat, and the idea had been to make the other guy feel that way in the end. He would though. In the end.

“Well uh...”she stammered, feeling beyond ashamed. “I’m going to sit here for a little bit longer. You?”

“Of course,” Acrus said with a smile. “I’d be a fool to pass up a chance at spending time with a beautiful lady.”

He’d called her beautiful, how generous of him. The guy didn’t mean a word he said, and this just made her even sadder. She’d feel elated at getting the compliment under normal circumstances, but like this... the compliment had been meant for Serana, and now he just wasted it on her, just to get his rocks off. Best case scenario, he did it to put her at ease. In the worst case, he just wanted to trick her into taking him to bed.

She would, though. Just not the way he wanted it.

She tried to smile but could only feel ashamed. Even with all the power she had, all the nobility bestowed on her, she realized she was still nothing compared to Serana.

But the guy, he... something looked different about him. As if he was sitting there, getting a massive epiphany, his gaze far off, the spoonful of stew just suspended in the air, held up by fingers that didn’t feel it anymore. And something had _changed_. His eyes, his face... it was as if his soul and mind were shaken by something, and as if he was trying to rearrange his changed thoughts and feelings. “Hey... are you alright?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

There was no response, the guy just sat there, slack-jawed.

“Uh... should I call someone?”

This did get through to him and it looked like it took an immense effort to just say, “No... no, I’m alright. I just... realized something.”

Okay, now she was curious. More curious than she wanted to admit. That look had just been so... strange. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

“No,” he told her. “Nothing bad.”

She was surprised at herself that she felt relieved.

And like the different person he was, he said gently, “Lady Roë, this has been a wonderful evening, but I really should head to bed now.”

“Really?” What? What was this now? Was he going to spurn her after all? “I thought... well, I thought we were having a pleasant evening?”

“We are,” he assured her, and he looked sincere, “but I just...”

“Just what?” No, this was all wrong. Her hunger was too strong, her self-worth too fragile.

“I... feel like I’d be taking advantage,” he said, looking like he was actually confessing. “You’re obviously a nice person and, well... I can’t explain it, but I feel like I haven’t been honest with you.”

What in Oblivion was going on? Had this guy just had his mind blown? “In... in what way,” she asked, not knowing if it was her hunger or her self esteem that wanted to know.

“It doesn’t matter.” He seemed to struggle for words, contrasting sharply with the pseudo-confident charmer he had made himself out to be before. “But please believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you.”

But it did. Had he caught on, maybe? Seen her motives for what they were? Or was he legitimately trying to change?

“Look,” she said, aware of how desperate she sounded. She was so incredibly hungry. “I could really use some company tonight. Not... I mean, not because of anything lewd, just... I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Maybe this would block off his explanation of not wanting to take advantage.

Very briefly, she saw doubt on his face, even suspicion, but then it was gone again. “But... thing is, I don’t want you to think I’m – ”

“No. No,” she said immediately. “I’m asking, so you’re not taking advantage. If that’s really the reason, then don’t worry about it.” _Come on, say yes. Say yes, I need it._

He was clearly torn, not sure she was being sincere, and not sure she wasn’t being an idiot, so he came up with what he probably thought was an intermediate solution. “Look, I’ll walk you to your room at least. How ‘bout that?”

“I... suppose.” It was better than nothing. Maybe then she could find a way to give him that final nudge.

“Shall we?”

He did as he’d promised, walking Roë to her room, while telling her about the College, giving her a tour insofar as their route allowed, and sharing some gossip about the lecturers he’d caught from his fellow students. She tried to listen as best she could but all she could really hear was her hunger, gnawing at her, filling her with dread and necessity about her first live victim. Her throat was completely and utterly dry, and swallowing just made it worse.

They reached the guest wing, and the door to her room. And with that, the awkward moment Roë had been apprehensive about. Because she had to push through now. Convince him it was alright. She begun to realize that this may not be the target Serana thought about, and that the risk of killing him had now become significant, since he didn’t seem like a bad person, but on the other hand... the hunger!

“Would you... like to come in?” she heard herself ask. It sounded hesitant and nervous.

After a brief, long moment of doubt, during which she saw a struggle in his eyes, he thankfully said, “Sure. Sure, why not.”

She pushed the door open and let him enter, sitting next to him on the bed. Immediately, before he’d even had a chance to say something, she went for his collar and began undoing the buttons. He’d still show his true nature now, by trying to take her. He had to, because she needed this.

She worked his buttons, taking care to let him feel her fingers against him, while not letting him notice they were cold. He wasn’t resisting, so he really did want to have his way with her, and if she’d told him no, he wouldn’t have taken it for an answer, right? Right.

“Stop. Stop, Roë.”

No, no, dammit! “Wh... what? I thought... I thought you wanted...”

He gently took her hands off the front of his shirt. “Yes, I want. But it’s not about what I want.”

“Yes it is,” she protested. _Dammit just be a rapist I need you to be a rapist! I need to lead you on and then say no so you can force me and I can feel justified in what I’m about to do._ “It’s fine, just let me – ”

“I’m not an idiot, Roë. I know you’re not doing this for the right reasons.” When he was met with a blank stare, he continued, “Look, maybe you think you want this, but I’ve been watching you, and I don’t think you do. I don’t want to... make you do things against your will. I have... things to atone for. I’ll stay with you if you like, but not... I’ll stay with you just to keep you company. No, more than that. Just to be close to you.”

She kept quiet, her eyes still on him. This wasn’t happening. Damn it Serana.

“I want to do this right, Roë. And I think just holding you tonight is what’s right. For both of us.”

She looked at him for a few moments longer, then let out a desperate, frustrated groan, slumping forward, her arms hanging between her legs. This was all wrong. She couldn’t do it, this guy wasn’t the coercing type like Serana had said he would be. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

“I know, it’s complic – ”

“She said they’d all be after one thing. She said she could recognize them, and that you were like them,” she heard herself groan, still slumped forward. Her will was too weak to stop the words from tumbling from her mouth even though she knew she was making a huge mistake. “That they all deserved it anyway.”

His voice came surprised. “Roë... what did you say?”

She lifted her head again, feeling no tears but knowing she would have cried them if she could. And she heard herself confess, unable to keep it up. “I’m sorry... I’ve been lying to you. You’re... not here for... well, _that_ , but...”

Acrus jumped up from the bed. “Roë, then why? To rob me?”

She shook her head. If only. “No. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Look, just... sit down.”

He did so, but kept his distance. “Try me anyway.”

She sat there, her eyes closed. She wanted to tell him everything, to let it all out, even though it would have terrible, terrible consequences. And out it came, without Roë being able to do a thing about it. “Serana said she could spot potential victims. Said she only picked the... ‘acceptable targets’, as she called it. The guys who were only after one thing, the ones who only saw you as meat. And... the ones who’d force themselves on you if you said no.”

Acrus kept quiet.

“They were ideal,” she heard herself carry on. “Because you could get them to do as you wanted, and when their guard was down...”

It had begun to dawn on him that what she’d had planned had been something much more terrible than robbery. “Then what, Roë?”

She looked up at him. “Serana will kill me if I tell you.” She wouldn’t, Roë didn’t think so, after all they were friends, but she’d hate her, cast her out, even. And she wouldn’t be able to protect her from her father.

“Then we make sure Serana doesn’t find out,” Acrus said to her, sounding confident and actually putting her somewhat at ease. “Are you... her prisoner?”

She could understand how he got that idea, but, “ _No_ , no. No, Serana is my friend, I... care about her. A lot. But it’d just be... really, really dangerous if I told you.”

“Dangerous for you, or for me?”

“For us,” she sighed. “Serana and me.”

“Roë,” Acrus said to her, “I promise you, right here, that nothing you say leaves this room. Part of you obviously wants to tell me, so if you want to, don’t be afraid.” He was completely different from the man who’d been at the table with her and Serana. She felt like... he could trust this guy, somehow. To her own amazement.

“Do you swear?” she asked, terrified of what she was about to do.

“On my immortal soul, Roë,” he pledged, looking like he meant every word, and Roë believed him.

She had to think on how to break it to him best. “I’ll... I don’t think telling you would work. I’ll have to show you.” The thought terrified her even more, but this was the best way. She no longer had the strength to lie, to keep up the act. She just wanted to confess. To _tell someone_. To stop carrying this burden all alone.

“You don’t have one of those freaky belly buttons that sticks outwards, do you?” Acrus said, apparently trying to lighten the mood a bit.

It worked a bit, a faint smile playing around her lips, but only very briefly. “No. Just... just watch.”

“Alright. Whatever it is, I won’t think any less of you.” Roë thought to herself that he might soon be regretting that hasty promise.

She closed her eyes again, and let the illusion fall. She knew he saw her now as she really was, monstrous and ugly. But there was one more thing. She opened her eyes.

Acrus looked the way she had felt when she’d first seen Serana’s blazing eyes, or her own in the mirror. His breath had stopped in his throat, and his eyes were wide with uncomprehending terror. “By the... ” he began, but the words stalled in his throat.

“Am I that horrifying?” She asked, knowing the answer. “I haven’t even dared to look in a mirror yet.” At least not when she was like this, without the regal and immaculate illusion.

The man sitting next to her on the bed forced himself to resume breathing, and said in a hoarse voice, “No... it’s... not that bad, it’s just...your eyes. What are you? A daedra?”

“No.” When she pulled her upper lip back and showed her sharp, elongated eye teeth, it did the trick.

“... Vampire?”

“I never asked for this,” she could only say. “Never chose it.”

“So you’re Vampires, then? You and Serana?” He sounded remarkably collected, even though Roë knew he wasn’t. It made her feel a bit less naked and ugly.

“Yes. She’s really old, like ancient. I just... I didn’t become this until recently.” She couldn’t get her voice to behave, the telling making her feel utterly miserable.

“And did you bring me here to... kill me and drink my blood?”

“Not kill you,” she said immediately. “At least, not on purpose.” _But we chose you because it wouldn’t be that big a deal if it did happen._

“What do you mean?”

She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from confessing even if she tried. “Serana said... well, that new... things like me, we... can’t really estimate it well. Sometimes fledglings accidentally kill people when they’re not supposed to. They take too much, and the victim dies after a while because of blood shortage. And sometimes they even... drink so much they kill the victim while they feed. That’s dangerous, they can become monsters if they do that.” The words were coming out like a waterfall now, and she was disgusted with herself for what she’d done. “Anyway, the danger is there in the beginning, so the first few victims are usually people who, well... wouldn’t be a big loss if they died.”

“Well thanks,” he said hoarsely.

“Serana got you wrong, alright?” she pleaded. “She thought you were like those guys who were only driven by lust, who thought only about themselves. The sort of guys who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

There was a strange expression on his face, as if he felt... guilty somehow. “So what happens now?”

“Now? I hope Serana’s concluded her business here, because it won’t be safe to stay. I believe you when you say you won’t tell, but... we can’t take the chance. They’ll burn us if they find out. Well, unless Serana...”

“Unless Serana what?”

She looked away. “Unless she defends herself.” And Roë with her. It would be a cataclysm, though if it would just be the College inhabitants that were destroyed, Roë didn’t know. There would be a lot of people dead, that was certain.

“We’re in the middle of the College of Winterhold, Roë. The greatest mages in Skyrim are gathered here. I don’t think Serana – ”

He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand the magnitude of it. “Serana is _ancient_ , Acrus. I’m talking thousands of years old. And even though you might not believe me, she’s a wonderful person,” because she was, Roë was convinced she was, “she’d never hurt anyone if she didn’t have to, but...”

“Anyway, it’s all moot. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

He meant it, she could tell, and relief washed over her. “Thank you. I’ll go hungry tonight, maybe even starve, but I think it’s for the best.” It felt like a very real possibility, and even though she partly welcomed her end, she knew her body wouldn’t allow it. It would send her on a murderous spree before allowing her to die.

“Starve?”

“I’m _hungry_ , Acrus,” she said. “I know my strength won’t hold out much longer. Serana said starving Vampires rampage, but I... just don’t have the will or the energy. So I think I’ll just fall over and stop existing when I’m starved.” At least, she hoped it would come to that.

“You... might not have to?”

What in Oblivion was he saying? “What do you mean?”

“Well... you say you choose bad people as victims, right? But there’s something even better. Something you’d have to feel even less guilty about. A willing victim.”

No way. Did he just offer... it was a dangerous offer, and she wanted to decline, but the hunger was too strong, pushing her to ask, “You’d... do that for me?”

“I don’t know. Is it dangerous? I mean, can I... catch it?”

“No. Serana said feeding alone doesn’t transfer the disease. It’s the claws that do it. And even if it did, you’d just need your Restoration lecturer to cast a cure spell in its early stages. It’s easily cured. If you treat in time.” All she could do was lay her hands over her face and say, “I didn’t.” It came out like a peep.

“I’m... sorry, Roë.”

“I can’t even cry,” she said into her hands. “I can’t even cry anymore. I just want to _cry_.” She did. So very much. But even that had been taken from her.

He kept silent. Boots bonked on the floor in the hallway. Probably a guard who passed by.

“Serana says it’ll get better in time,” she continued, “but right now...” she checked herself and realized she was pouring out her heart to a total stranger. “I’m sorry, I shouldn‘t be bothering you with this. Anyway, I can’t ask this of you. Even though it should be safe, I don’t trust myself.” After all, there had been Agmaer, knocked off the battlements to his death. The others she’d killed had been killers themselves, directly or indirectly, but not Agmaer. Not this young farm boy who wanted to be a hero. She hadn’t known her strength, had underestimated how much the vampirism was in control when it wanted to be. And that was even before she’d become ‘noble’. The word was a travesty in itself. “I... already killed someone, by accident.”

“What, by overfeeding?”

“No. No, I’ve only... it’s only been animals so far. No, I... didn’t know how strong I’d become, and I killed someone who attacked us. Someone who thought he was doing the right thing, fighting monsters. A boy, not even a man yet, a naive farm hand who thought he’d help the world by fighting vampires. I... kicked him right off a rooftop,” she confessed. She was sorry about it, so sorry. “I’m so sorry, Agmaer.”

“Roë,” Acrus said gently. “You said yourself it was by accident. You didn’t mean for it to happen. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“No one ever does, Acrus,” she said. ‘I didn’t mean to’ didn’t count. It was too easy. She’d done it, no matter what she’d meant to do. “But he’s dead, and it’s my fault. And that’s why I’m afraid to accept your offer now. I might... might not be able to contain myself. And if you were like Serana said you’d be, it would be one thing, but you’re sitting here, shaming me with your kindness.” But how she wanted him to insist. How she wanted him to convince her.

“Roë. I’m not as kind as you think I am. I’ve changed, but I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life,” Acrus told her. Seemed he also had things to confess. “Your Serana wasn’t that wrong about me. I’ve been blind and stupid, thinking only about myself, and I’ve hurt people, by being selfish and dishonest. I’ve got a lot of things to make up for. And I already started today. Let me follow through. We help each other, right?”

Her resolve faltered, the hunger taking over. She made one last attempt, hoping to fail. “It might be – ”

He shook his head. “No, Roë. I have faith in you. You’ll be careful.”

There was no more discussion now, no more resisting. The hunger told her she’d had her chance, now it dictated what was going to happen. She was going to feed. “For what it’s worth,” she said, realizing there would be no stopping it, “I’ve heard that once you’re past the pain of the fangs, it’s a wonderful feeling.”

“You mean, being fed on?”

She grimaced at the word. “Yes. Serana said we usually go for victims who are asleep, but apparently it’s a feeling of bliss if it happens when you’re awake. Or so I’m told.” Her fingers played with the green woollen blanket on the bed and she forced herself to stop.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Roë, you need this.” He put his hand on hers, and she felt its warmth “And so do I.”

“Are you _sure_?” It didn’t matter anymore if he was sure or not.

He nodded. “So do I just... tilt my head, or...?”

“Yes. Should be fine. Everything should come natural, Serana said. She was right about the animals too.”

“Well, dinner’s served, I guess,” the guy actually tried to joke.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Acrus.” He was giving her something incredible, knowing it might cost him his life. Because Roë couldn’t guarantee she’d stop in time.

“No, Roë,” he said. “Thank you, for giving back my humanity. No matter what happens now, you’ve saved me.”

What the cack was he talking about? Saved him? All she’d done was lie to him and guilted him into being her victim. “I... haven’t done anything?”

“Believe me,” he said. “You’ve done more than you know.” He tilted his head, exposing his throat, and pulled his collar down. “Sorry, I haven’t shaved.”

She felt herself smile at that. At least he could still see the humour in it. “We’ll be gone when you wake up tomorrow. So this is goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Roë. I’ll never forget you.”

“Nor I you.” She meant it but didn’t know if it was the truth.

He closed his eyes, and Roë, terrified and ravenous, felt things go almost automatically. She tilted her head and the fangs found his throat without her even thinking about it. They snapped through his skin as if she bit an apple, and rich, warm, red and full of power and vigour. A droplet ran down her victim’s warm skin, and her tongue instinctively came out and licked it up. It was out of her control now, and she came closer to him, her prey lying back, until she was on top of him. Her eyes were closed, and she knew his were too, as she drank, letting the warm, powerful liquid run down her throat, sticky and rich in taste, so much that she drank and drank, enjoying the rush of every swallow she took, every mouthful she sent down her gullet. It was like she was alive! She actually felt alive! She wasn’t in control, her body was doing everything on its own, and she couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it, couldn’t do anything to tear herself away from this unbelievable ecstasy.

At the edge of her perception, she felt the body under her still breathing slowly, heard herself moan in pure rapture as she drank, her victim’s arms wrapped around her, an erection pushing against her pelvis. She drank and drank, the world reduced to nothing but herself and her victim, and his warm lifeblood running inside her, pulsating through her body in massive, almost painful rushes of pure joy.

She didn’t feel the person under her go unconscious, all she thought about was the ecstasy she was experiencing, clinging to this life-like feeling, beside herself with relief that she could experience it again. Strength and power surged through her, and she felt even more powerful than before, as if she could level buildings with her might and drain the world black with her magick. Every mouthful meant more power, more joy, more _life_.

And then there were no more. The flow stopped, and Roë’s teeth lay in a dead, dry artery.

Her eyes flew open even before her fangs came out of his throat.

Oh no.

She pushed herself up so she sat on all fours, looking down on her victim. He was drained to white, the skin stretched taut over his skull. And yet, on his face was pure tranquillity.

She’d killed him. She’d overfed and killed him. Oh no, no, no.

A rush of thoughts assaulted her at the same time. Serana would do her head in. What about the body? What had she done to herself? Why hadn’t she stopped? What would happen to her now? Had she started on a dark path? Or was this still correctable? Would Serana abandon her? Would someone discover them? Would the mages try to capture or kill them? Would they be lashed to a stake and burned? Would they –

 _Stop_.

That voice again. The girl who wasn’t a girl. It calmed her instantly and though it sounded soothing, Roë knew the owner of the voice was filled with pure malice and horror.

 _Calm yourself_.

And Roë did. She felt herself grow less panicked, the whirlwind in her head slowing.

She had to go get Serana. She’d know what to do, it wouldn’t be the first time she had to deal with this.

After a brief look at her victim, a man who’d unknowingly given his life for her, a man who’d offered his blood so generously and who she’d repaid by killing him, she opened the door and zipped into the hallway, tiptoeing to Serana’s door.

“Serana,” she hissed as she rapped the door, loud enough so she’d hear, but not too loud as not to bring anyone to investigate. “Ser _ana_!”

“What’s the matter Roë,” Serana said in a bored voice when she opened the door. “Can’t sleep? It’s normal for – ” But then she saw Roë’s face, and hers immediately grew alert with concern. “You’ve killed him.”

“I...”

“Aedra damn it, Roë!” Serana snapped. “I _told_ you to stop in time! I thought you could be trusted to d – ”

“I _know_ , alright?” Roë broke her off. “I don’t need a _fucking_ lecture!” Again rage rose up in her and she felt the urge to put her hand against Serana’s face and ram her head through the wall. And the urge terrified her. Instead, she grabbed Serana by the shoulder and pulled her into her own room. “I can’t undo this now,” she hissed. “It... happened without me even controlling it.”

She saw from Serana’s face that she shouldn’t have said that. “Roë... if you really can’t control what you do when you feed, then...”

“I _know_.” She knew all too well. “I know.”

Serana remembered herself and briefly laid her hand on Roë’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be freaking out. We’ll deal with all the consequences later. Right now, we have to make sure this stays undiscovered.”

She looked over the room, to the dead man lying sprawled on the guest bed. “No stains,” she said to herself. “Good.” Then, to Roë, “Did anyone see you leave together?”

She shook her head. “He walked me to my room and gave me a small tour, but the places we visited were mostly empty. Nobody saw us together. Well, except in the refectory.”

“Right,” Serana said, looking through the room, her hands in her sides. “We’ve got to get this dead guy out of here. He was just some student so I don’t think he’ll be missed before morning.”

“He wasn’t... just a student,” Roë said quietly.

“What do you mean? Like, a lecturer or something?”

“No, no. He just... he was a good person.”

Serana snorted. “Not from where I was sitting, he wasn’t.”

“Well he was, alright?” Roë snapped. “I... saw him for what he really was.”

“Well, it didn’t do him any favours in the end,” Serana muttered, looking down at the pale, dead College student. “We have to smuggle him out. I don’t know how, but – ”

“I know how,” Roë said. Acrus was dead, and nothing they did to his body could hurt him anymore, so she just opened the window and looked out, seeing the jagged rocks and frothing sea below. She looked back at Serana. “This way.”

“You wanna... throw him out the window?”

“It’s the only way. He’s dead, he doesn’t feel it anymore.”

Serana made an uncomfortable face. “That’s cold.”

Roë didn’t want to debate the issue further. They had to get rid of Acrus’ remains and get _out_. She marched to the body, grabbed it under the arms, dragged it to the window (it went surprisingly easy with her vampiric strength), and lifted him up, letting him briefly hang over the windowframe to adjust her grip, and then just tilted him over, letting him fall down to his icy cold, watery grave. The wind howled too hard for her to hear the splash or the thump, and she knew it was better this way. Again she told herself that he didn’t feel anything anymore.

“Well,” Serana said flatly, “he’s gone.”

Roë slammed the window closed. “Don’t think for a minute that I enjoyed that.”

“You better not,” Serana said sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Remember this feeling. Remember it well, because you may need this memory to save you next time.”

“Serana,” Roë said through clenched teeth, her anger inexorably rising. “I care about you, I really do, but I’m really unstable right now and if you don’t stop lecturing me – ”

“You’re right.” Serana spread her hands. “I’m sorry. I just... don’t want you to go down the wrong path. But you’re right, I’m sure you feel rotten, and that’s probably the best way to keep it from happening again.”

Roë sighed, weary of all of it. “Can we just go?”

“We’re gonna have to.”

The College was mostly empty at this hour, and they skulked through the hallways, easily able to avoid any encounter with guards or mages. In the great hall, the aged lecturer was still admiring the glowing orb of crackling energy, stroking his beard as he enjoyed the sight. They slipped past him easily.

The cold wind buffeted them as they crossed the bridge, the mage guarding the gate now replaced by a different one. Since the College focused mostly on keeping unwanted individuals out, the guard stood looking out at the village, his back to them.

Serana motioned for Roë to stop, then sneaked closer to the guard. Like a writhing snake, she sensuously coiled her arms towards the guard, then snatched him, sinking her fangs into his throat before he could react. He went limp in her arms and she drank, then gently lowered him to the ground.

Wiping the blood from her chin, she said to Roë, with a sheepish grin, “Guard duty can make a person so tired.”

“How do you... how do you stop in time?” Roë asked.

“Just takes self-control.” She put her hand on Roë’s shoulder. “You’ll learn. I promise.”

“I’ll have to.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Stop right there.”

They were at the foot of the stairs, and emerging from the mist were four armoured humans, two of them bearing crossbows. Roë recognized the armour and helmet style immediately. “Dawnguard,” she quietly said to Serana.

“Well,” her friend said, not sounding very impressed, “it was long overdue I suppose.”

“Drop your weapons,” the man leading the squad shouted. “Slowly, no sudden movements.” The wind was howling and the voice was distorted by the helmet visor, but Roë knew that voice.

She stepped forward, defying the crossbows aimed at her. “Kunod?”

The man adjusted his pose, putting his legs wider and lifting the crossbow. “Not one more step, Roë.”

“Kunod,” Roë said, now close enough to just speak. “It’s me. Why are you doing this?”

“No, Roë,” Kunod said. “It’s not you. Roë died. You’re the abomination that took her place. Same name, but that’s where the similarities end.”

Was he for real? Was he so indoctrinated by the Dawnguard that he’d turn on his former friend? No, not just friend, someone he’d cared about, even had romantic feelings for? Or was he right? Had she changed so much as not to be the old Roë anymore? Where did her old self end and her new self begin? Maybe she’d already passed that point?

The three other Dawnguard soldiers stood looking nervously, waiting for the order to attack, but from their stance, Roë could tell they felt more prey than hunter.

She pushed her doubts away and said gently, her voice barely audible over the wind that drove the snow hard against her skin. “No, Kunod. It’s still me. I don’t know what Isran told you, but _this..._ this form? It doesn’t change who I am. I’m still Roë.”

“Get back,” he simply said. “The Roë I knew wouldn’t have killed a young, innocent farm hand.”

“It was an accident, Kunod,” she tried to explain. “I never intended for him to – ”

“But you did. And the next innocent person you kill, you’ll also say you ‘never intended to’. And the next. And the next.”

He was more right than he knew. But she really _hadn’t_ intended for Agmaer or Acrus to die.

“Kunod... this doesn’t have to end this way. We can still survive this. All of us.” She held out her hand. “Just lower the crossbow and take my hand. It’s the same hand you’ve held before.”

Kunod hesitated, just standing there for a moment, the only thing moving were the beard hairs that peeked out from under his helmet, stirred by the wind.

“I promise you,” she said. “It’s not a trap.”

“Don’t listen to her, man,” one of the Dawnguard squad said nervously, his voice shaking. “It’s a trick.”

“You know what has to be done,” a female soldier told him, her voice steadier. This one was holding a crossbow. “We need to kill these Vampires to save the innocent. To save _them_ , too.”

Roë just kept her gaze on Kunod’s helmet, her hand outstretched.

“She’s charmed him,” the Dawnguard soldier shouted. “She put a spell on him.”

Kunod’s crossbow slowly lowered, and one of his gloved hands let go, extending towards Roë’s.

Roë took a step closer and reached for his hand, their fingertips almost touching.

“Fuck this,” the female Dawnguard growled. “I’m not letting this happen. Die!”

She released, and everything collapsed. Roë threw herself to the side, the bolt whizzing past her. A blast of flame roared overhead, and Kunod staggered back, protected from the brunt of the flames by his armour and helmet. Confused and acting purely on instinct, Kunod raised his own crossbow and pointed it at the prone Roë, shooting her right below the breastbone, the bolt thudding into the soft tissue of her abdomen. The pain was indescribable, but it was nothing more than pain. She heard herself let out a short, sharp wail.

Boots flew over her as one of the Dawnguard soldiers leapt for Serana, but the next moment, blood spattered in Roë’s face. She tried to get to her feet but was bowled over by the female soldier body-slamming into her, the crossbow bolt wrenching as they tumbled, tearing open even more of her useless insides. The Dawnguard woman was strong, but no match for Roë’s vampiric strength, fueled by the blood of her innocent victim. She smacked her fist into the woman’s face, denting her visor and breaking her nose with a wet crack, taking her weight off her. Now it was her turn to be on top of her opponent, and pinning her down, she batted her helmet off.

The woman screamed and begged as Roë bared her fangs and let them sink into her throat. Blood spurted into her mouth a she tore the soldier’s larynx out, severing the blood vessels. She got up, spat out the chunk of cartilage and tissue, and with a short stomp of her foot, snapped the gurgling woman’s neck, her brown hair falling over her dead face.

She pulled the crossbow bolt free and threw it in the snow, but as she did so, she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She jerked her head back just in time to avoid the swipe of Kunod’s longsword, aimed at splitting her face.

Serana stood over one of her opponents, her legs wide. She held the other back with some sort of repellent field she held up with one hand, against which he struggled but couldn’t break free from. An icicle appeared in her other hand and shot straight into the eye hole of the prone Dawnguard soldier’s helmet, blood spurting up as it impaled his skull.

Kunod had recovered from his wild swing, and advanced on her, holding his sword out in front of him. The beard hairs that came out under his helmet still smouldered and his breastplate and visor were blackened from the heat.

“Kunod,” Roë tried to say. “It’s not too late, you can still – ”

But he paid her no heed, swinging again, so hard and fast she could only barely dodge the downward chop. Without her vampiric reflexes she would have been cleft in twain. Another swing, and Roë dodged it again. Then her foot kicked out, catching him in the chest and sending him back a few paces.

Serana dealt with her second attacker, telekinetically lifting him up and while he kicked and flailed, she impaled him chest-first onto a sharp tree stump.

Kunod came at her again, but Roë caught his wrist, and brimming with blood-strength, she broke it purely by the force of her fingers. Kunod’s sword fell into the snow and he staggered back, holding his broken wrist, until he backed into a tree. “What... what happened to you?” he breathed. “When did you...”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, sensing Serana coming to stand next to her. “Why didn’t you take the chance to stop when I gave it to you?”

“Because...” he breathed, white puffs coming from the holes in his visor, “... because there’s only one way I can set you free.” He stood there, his legs wide, hunched over with his wrist in his hand. “I owe it to Roë. The _real_ Roë.”

“I _am_ the real Roë,” she snapped. “I’m still me, damn it!”

“Are you?” Kunod shouted. “Are you? Look at you, your chin red with human blood, telling me you’re still the same Roë I used to know.”

“He’s not gonna stop coming after us,” Serana said. “We have to end this, you know we do.”

“Come with me,” Kunod breathed. “If you’re really her, then come with me and we’ll let you sleep. Don’t you want to be free of this?”

It didn’t matter what she wanted. What she was now would always refuse to die, refuse to let itself be destroyed. “I am free, Kunod. Just different.”

“You’re not just different,” he shouted. “You’re... a monster, an abomination!”

“Now now,” Serana scolded. “I’m beginning to take offence at this verbal abuse.”

“If I let you leave,” Roë asked, “will you leave us alone? Will you stop trying to kill us?”

“I... could say I would, but...” he admitted, “... it would be a lie. So go on, do it. Kill me. But know that everything I’ve done, everything I still do, is out of love for the person you once were.”

“I don’t need your love,” Roë growled, “not that kind of love, and not from you.” The rage welled up inside her again, and she let it take hold of her this time. Her hand shot out and clamped over Kunod’s visor, pinning his helmet against the tree. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want your love! I don’t want to be free! I don’t need ignorant, self-righteous people like you telling me what I want and what I don’t want! I don’t need to be fucking killed out of mercy!”

Kunod’s good hand clenched her wrist, trying to break her hold, but she held fast. “If the real Roë is somewhere in there – ” he tried to say, but Roë cut him off, “I _am_ the real Roë!”

Her anger became enormous and with a loud grunt, Roë pushed with all her might until, with the creaking of metal and the crunching of bone, Kunod’s visor bent inwards and the grip around her wrist went limp. Blood washed down out of his collapsed helmet, and when Roë pulled her hand back, his body crumpled to the ground.

Serana came to stand next to her, looking down at the body of the man who’d once been Roë’s friend. “Well. He’s dead.”

“Yeah,” Roë said quietly. “I should be proud of myself.”

“You did what you had to do,” Serana said without emotion. “It was messy, but it was fast. He should be glad you made it quick. And uh, thorough.”

“He was my friend,” Roë said, still quiet, looking down at Kunod’s lifeless body, snow shoring up against it and turning red where it melted in the blood. “He was a good person, and he wasn’t lying when he said he did it out of love. He really thought he was doing a good thing.”

“Well,” Serana merely said, “Intentions are nice, but it was you or him. Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry, Kunod,” she whispered, the regret inside her even colder than the snow on her skin.

Serana laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. We can reach Dragon Bridge tomorrow evening if we hurry.”

* * *

“No, no... We’ve deviated.”

“Have we?” Serana said, looking up at the city which lay before them. “Isn’t this that Dragon Bridge place?”

Roë shook her head. “No. It’s my home town. Solitude.”

“Ohh,” Serana realized. “The place where you were in the guard?”

Sadness washed over her at the sight of her old home. It seemed like centuries ago. “Yes.”

“What’s that?”

As Roë and Serana watched, torches danced on the bridge that connected the palace to the tower. “Muh. Probably something – ”

Roë was interrupted by the sight of a human figure, tiny against the dusk sky, little more than a dot, launching off the bridge. Something happened to the jumper in mid-flight, a sort of shock sending the body flying end over end, arms and legs sprawled, plummeting down from a dizzying height, until it hit the water with a crash so loud Roë and Serana fancied they could hear it all the way where they were standing.

“What do you think that was?” Serana asked, intrigued but not impressed.

“No idea,” Roë said. “But that fall would turn anyone into a really messy pancake. Probably a criminal they chucked off the tower or something.”

Serana looked at her with an amused, mischievous face. “Really? I didn’t know you had that kind of fun in the guard?”

“We didn’t. But the Penitus Oculatus doesn’t shy away from cruel and unusual punishment. They’ve got a detachment in the palace. My parents always told me they were in a different division. Not the torturing and executing bunch. I hope so.”

“What’s the Penitus Chocolatus?”

Roë grinned. “Moron.”

Serana grinned back. “So what is it?”

“It’s the Emperor’s special... Look, we need to head southwest from here. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Ooh, and tell me about your parents too!”

“Not much to tell. I don’t see much of them, really.”

“Hey, we should go meet them!”

“Don’t push it.”

Roë told Serana about the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s special protection unit, of which her parents made part, and Serana listened intently, occasionally interrupting to ask some personal things about her parents, things Roë answered while trying as much as she could to hide that every time she talked about her parents, it broke her heart.

Even though she didn’t mind talking to Serana, the emotional weight was rather heavy, and she was glad to say, “We should be coming up on Dragon Bridge. Should see it when we crest this hill.”

They saw Dragon Bridge alright, but the overturned, ransacked cart drew their attention right away from the town. It wasn’t the first overturned cart in the history of Skyrim, but the things scattered around the capsized carriage were more than a bit relevant to their interests: as if they had exploded outwards, a mass of books was strewn around the cart, their pages flapping in the cold wind.

Serana and Roë exchanged a glance.

“Imagine if this _isn’t_ the Moth Priest’s cart,” Serana said. “How stupid would that be?”

“I bet it is though,” Roë said, jogging down the path lined with purple mountain flowers, to the overturned cart. She kneeled down beside it and immediately had her assumptions confirmed. “Look,” she said to Serana, holding up the robe that had been knocked out of the wicker basket along with all the other spare clothes. The embroidery, in gold, of a moth, left nothing to doubt.

“Looks like our Moth Priest flew into the fly swatter,” Serana remarked.

“Tracks,” Roë said, not wasting time. “And the horses are freshly slain.”

“And drained,” Serana observed. “I swear, does every Vampire conspire against every other Vampire in this age?”

“Probably. You’re asking the wrong person.”

Serana chuckled. “Right, forgot you were a wee little fledgling.”

“Come on, we can still catch them. They’ve got a captive so they’ll be moving slowly.”

They ran in the direction of the tracks, for what seemed like half an hour, not getting tired, until they sighted their quarry: three figures dragging off another, dressed in a robe.

“Killing time,” Serana merely said with subtle glee in her voice, breaking into a charge, an icicle forming between the fingers of the hand she held above her head.

Shaking her head, Roë ran after her, propelling herself forward on indefatigable, throbbingly powerful legs. She surpassed Serana, but the icicle, in turn, flew past her, burying itself in the back of the head of one of the Vampires, destroying his brain stem.

The other two turned, but between their struggling victim and their surprise, they couldn’t put up much resistance, and Roë’s shortsword slashed across the throat of one of them, half-decapitating him. On the backhand, she chopped in his face, then thrust her sword forward, piercing her victim’s heart. The second fared little better, as Roë blocked his claw swipe with her forearm and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her up and smacking her down hard into the cobblestones, before impaling her through the back with her shortsword, destroying her heart as well.

“Moth Priest,” Serana said to the prone figure, a bald portly man with a grey beard, “We’re here to save you.” With a chuckle, she added, “Well, sorta. On your feet, you’re going to do some deciphering for us.”

 


	35. Falnas: Hard Answers

  **FALNAS**

**Hard Answers**

**Winterhold**

 

“What did you say the name was?” The guardswoman he’d asked directions to stood squinting at him, the ice cold wind blowing snow in her face, which was marked by a jagged scar running diagonally across.

“Enthir,” Falnas shouted over the howling wind, hugging himself against the icy cold and the snow that seemed to blow right through his clothes.

The woman shook her head. “Might wanna try the Frozen Hearth.” When Falnas gave her a questioning look, she clarified, “Tavern, back the way you came.”

Yes, this hamlet seemed to consist of only one street flanked with hovels and a house or two. And right ahead of him lay stone stairs that led to a bridge, and beyond that, a massive temple of sorts. “What about over there?”

“Don’t think so,” the guard shouted. “That’s the College of Winterhold.”

“Well? A College makes sense.”

“Not for a linguist,” she hollered. “It’s a College of magick.”

“Alright, tavern then?”

“Yes,” she shouted, shielding her face. “Go on, get out of the blizzard.”

“You should too.”

“Wish I could. Take care.”

“You too, thanks.”

Right place or no, he was happy to be out of the blizzard. He left it, and its howling wind and snow, behind when he banged the door of the inn closed. He was in the northest reaches of Skyrim now, and dammit if he didn’t know it. The cold had a million tiny teeth here. Thank Nocturnal though that despite the sign outside, the hearth was not literally frozen. The warmth of the fireplace wafted towards him, and his clothes promptly began to steam.

Falnas sat himself down as close to the hearth as he could, and ordered a goblet of hot wine. There wouldn’t be flin or sujamma here, but surely a bottle of spiced red would be available. And indeed, the steaming goblet warmed his inner thief as the hearth warmed the rest of him.

“Hey friend,” Falnas asked the innkeeper, a Nord with the dumbest looking face he’d ever seen. “I’m looking for a man named Enthir. They said I could find him here.”

“Oh, Enthir, yeah, he’s around. Who wants to know?”

“Someone with an interest in the Falmer language,” Falnas simply replied. Weren’t innkeepers supposed to be discrete?

A cowled Dunmer woman sitting in the corner gave him a curious, and even suspicious look. For a moment he thought it was Karliah, but this one’s mouth was slightly broader, and her upper lip more pronounced. When he looked back at her, he saw her eyes shift to the innkeeper.

“He’s in his room now,” the Nord said to Falnas, “but he’ll be down soon.” The innkeeper stood up and commented, seemingly to no one, “A lot of interest in Enthir lately.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Falnas asked, but the Nord had already walked to another table, the Dunmer in the corner following him with her eyes. This one was up to no good, but it seemed her sights were set on the innkeeper, and not on him, so he decided not to bother for now and just sip his wine as the hearth dried his clothes.

“Looking for me, are you?” a mer’s voice interrupted his repose. Sitting down at his table was a Bosmer with a rather manifest chin and his hair cut into an elfhawk.

“If you’re Enthir, then yes.”

“I’ll have you know,” the mer said with his eyes narrowed, “that we’re in a public place, and it would be very foolish of you to try and harm me.”

“Harm you?” Falnas echoed. “What makes you think I want to harm you? I just need someone to translate something for me. Something Falmer.”

“You do?” then the suspicion fell away from his face. “You do. Oh, you do. Yes, thank the Adrea… that’s… that’s alright. What exactly do you need?” he asked, visibly relieved.

“Are you in danger?” Falnas asked him, his eyes, in turn, narrowing.

“I’m not sure I am,” Enthir responded, looking over his shoulder. “But I know someone’s been watching me. A woman. Human, but I’m not sure which race exactly. She’s quick, I can only catch a glimpse of her when I suddenly turn around.”

That must be Mercer’s crony. That wouldn’t be a problem. “Well, if they wanted you dead, you’d be pushing up daisies already, wouldn’t you?” Falnas said, taking care not to let it slip that he knew who it probably was. Or at least who’d sent her.

“Yes… yes, I suppose. But they might just be waiting for… I don’t know.”

“Look, how ‘bout this,” Falnas suggested. “If you translate this journal for me, I’ll make sure that stalker is off your back. That a good deal?” It wasn’t, because Falnas knew more than Enthir did, but caveat emptor and all that. Besides, the result for Enthir would be the same, no matter how much or how little trouble it took Falnas.

“Well,” the mer said, shifting in his chair. “It’s like this… I _could_ translate the journal, but…”

Here it came. “But?”

“Well… you see,” he said, avoiding Falnas’ gaze, “I can’t just translate the Falmer language out of hand. It’s not how it works.”

It would seem Falnas was going to have to drag it out. “So how _does_ it work then?”

“I need a key. Not a physical one, but a translation key, you know?”

“M-hm.”

“Once I have that, I can translate whatever you want. But the only one who has a key to the Falmer language is Calcelmo. I can translate directly out of most languages, but Falmer… no.”

“Right. And who is this Calcelmo?”

“He’s a scholar, in Markarth. He’s supposed to have a key to the language, but he won’t share. He's holding the document for some reason. Probably to feel all grand knowing he’s the only one who has it.”

“Mm. Markarth, you say?”

“Markarth. Get me that key and I’ll translate the entire Annuad for you. But without it, it’s all gibberish.”

“And couldn’t this Calcelmo berk just – ”

Enthir interrupted him with a snort. “Calcelmo’s a hoarder. Not a linguist. He’d just put the document on display, in a glass case to make sure it didn’t get smudged. No, no, even with the key, he wouldn’t be able to translate even a nursery rhyme. You’ll need to get the key from him, some way.”

Falnas sipped his wine. “Any suggestions?” he already knew the most likely way, but if this guy could come up with something quicker, so much the better.

“No. But I’m certain he won’t be selling it.”

Falnas only smiled faintly. “That’s too bad, because he’ll wish he did.”

“Well, once you’re back with the key, I’ll translate that book in no time.”

Falnas paid for his wine and took a room, and after a short rest, he set off to Markarth. It was a serious hike away, but there probably wasn’t any rush. Mercer thought he was dead, and as long as Karliah sat tight, she wouldn’t be in danger. At dawn’s first light, he left the inn and shrugged his backpack on.

His sharp senses warned him of a person behind him, but as soon as he’d drawn his knife, he felt another one on his throat as an arm hooked around his waist.

“How are you still alive?” a female voice hissed

This must be the woman who’d been spying on Enthir. The one on the lookout for Karliah. It had been stupid of them to assume that Mercer’s man, or woman in this case, didn’t know his face either.

“Well, I just kept breathing in and out,” Falnas answered. “And the rest just took care of itself.”

“Cute. So the fact that you’re here can only mean one thing. You’re one of Karliah’s buddies now, are you?”

Falnas had recognized the voice right away. “Why yes. Yes, I think I am, Sapphire.”

“Of course you are. Should have figured it out sooner. You join, and then this whole mess with Karliah starts.”

“It did, at that,” Falnas realized. “What a coincidence, isn’t it? But I only took Karliah’s side yesterday.”

“My ass you did. But at least you’re honest about supporting Gallus’ murderer.”

“I’m not the one supporting the person who murdered Gallus,” Falnas grunted as Sapphire pulled her knife closer. “Seems we only heard one side of the story.”

“Bullshit,” Sapphire hissed in his ear. “Mercer told us about you. How you betrayed him at the last moment, tried to stab him in the back, and he struck you down. Karliah got away, but she’ll make a mistake yet. So how are you still alive?”

“Mercer was right about one thing,” Falnas said. “He did strike me down. Like a coward when I lay paralyzed by Karliah’s dart. I caught it when it was meant for him.”

“Doesn’t answer my question, and don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. Look, can we have a normal conversation without knives at each others’ vitals?”

Sapphire let out a grunting laugh. “I think there’s only one knife, and only one vital spot it’s aimed at.”

Smirking, Falnas said, “ _That_ is where you’re wrong.” With a quick movement, he made her feel the knife he had behind his back, the tip set against her abdomen, right above the pubis. “I’d never hurt you, Sapphire, but if I make a rash, uncontrolled move, say, by getting my throat cut, it would be a painful wound, and I’d probably spasm so hard I’d tear you right open. You might survive the wound, but you wouldn’t escape the guards. Don’t make me do that.”

“If I take the knife off, you’ll – ”

“No, Sapphire,” he assured her. “I swear. Mercer had us all fooled, me too. All I want to do is talk.” And he added a little bluff, “I knew you were here the second I arrived. Knew which room you were in. I could have killed you any time I wanted. Come on. Put the knife away, we’re looking like idiots in the middle of the street.”

Sapphire remained silent, but after a few seconds, the knife came off his throat. He in turn let his knife come off her abdomen and sheathed it. “Come on, let’s have a drink. Might as well talk in a warm place.”

The innkeeper served them two mugs of warm honeyed milk, with Sapphire still eyeing Falnas with unconcealed suspicion in her eyes.

“So talk,” she said when the innkeeper had returned to his bar. “Because I still don’t believe you.”

“Alright,” Falnas said. “I understand that you don’t. I didn’t believe it at first either. But Mercer… Mercer had us all fooled. It turns out _he_ was the one who murdered Gallus, and _he_ was the one who drove Karliah out.”

Sapphire scoffed. “Got any evidence for that, apart from her word?”

“I do,” he said with a smirk, holding up the journal. “Right here. This is Gallus’ journal.”

Sapphire held out her hand and flicked her fingers. “Give it here.”

Yes, there was the problem. “Yes, well…” he shifted in his seat. “You won’t be able to read it just like that.”

With an angry sigh, Sapphire gave him a look that said, ‘are you kidding me?’.

“It’s in the Falmer language. Needs to get translated first.”

“Hmph. Your dolly friend Karliah not versed in the language?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not.” She grunted, the warm milk untouched on the table before her. “So you’re asking me to believe you based on… what?”

He leaned in closer to her. “Sapphire. I’m not going to claim that you know me inside and out, but come on. In the three years we’ve been acquaintances, I must have made some impression of trustworthiness on you?”

She looked away. “I don’t think I’m very capable of anything resembling trust anymore.”

Maybe it was a bad idea to shift the topic of conversation away for a bit, but he asked regardless. “Sapphire, I’ve always seen you as a strong woman, but there’s always been… a sadness around you. A… ‘woundedness’ if I can use such a stupid word. What happened to you?”

Her features hardened and her lip trembled. “It’s better that you don’t ask. And it’s got nothing to do with this, so don’t side-track me.”

He pulled back and held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Yes, perhaps that would be best. “I’m sorry, I was only trying to...” he cleared his throat. “I swear it’s not my intention to side-track you, I asked out of genuine concern.”

“Well don’t. Again, you’re asking me to take you at your word.”

Falnas nodded. No sense trying to sugar-coat it. “When it comes down to it, yes, I am.”

“You know I can’t do that. Not just like that.”

“Look,” Falnas tried again. “All I’m asking is a little more time to get this thing translated. Nothing more.”

“You mean, a little more time to run away and blab to your friend Karliah?”

He shook his head. “Look at it this way. If Karliah and I really were planning something dirty, why on Nirn would I want to get this diary translated? If not to exonerate her, then what else?”

Sapphire finally touched her honeyed milk, taking a calculated sip. She looked like she was in deep thought. At length she said, “Fine. Let’s go then. Get this journal translated.”

Wait, hold on a second. “Uh... ‘let’s’?”

“I’m coming with you.” She rose and buckled her knife belt. “Unless that’s a problem?” She asked it casually but the undertone was unmistakable.

“Well no, but...”

“But what?” she snapped. Her patience was clearly running thin.

“No, no, nothing,” Falnas gave in. Better to let her tag along so he could clear his name with her support. “Let’s move.”

“What’s her problem?” Sapphire asked abruptly, her eyes on the Dunmer woman sitting in the corner, still studying the innkeeper.

“I think,” Falnas said, rising from his chair, “that our innkeeper is better appreciated dead than alive by someone who has money.”

“It’s not our business, is it?” Sapphire asked, her tone making it clear that maybe she wished it was.

“No, Sapphire,” Falnas said regardless. “Not our business.”

After a few seconds, she tore her eyes away from the bar, and followed Falnas outside.

Their hike took them to Markarth, a journey that took more than a day. Falnas knew better than to bother Sapphire with anything after the evening meal, and they both slept like logs, then resumed their walk to Markarth. Sapphire didn’t talk much, but she did ask questions about Karliah. Who was she? What was she like? What had happened between Mercer and her? They were questions asked, maybe, out of interest, but primarily to see if Falnas would trip up or if she could catch him in a lie. She didn’t, because there weren’t any.

They arrived in Markarth in the afternoon, and a quick ask-around told them Calcelmo was an Altmer historian with a museum in Understone Keep. A quick ask-around fuelled by some septims taught them that Calcelmo had a special interest in the Dwemer, and that he was knowledgeable about everything Falmer, though more as a side-effect of his Dwemer studies. In fact, his museum was really an excavation site doubling as a place of exhibition. Some extra septims had taught them Calcelmo had been boasting about a unique relic in his laboratory, a key to translate the Falmer language.

They had everything they needed, and after a quick supper, they went to confront Calcelmo in Understone Keep. One of the guards helpfully showed them the way to the man’s laboratory, but as they arrived, an Altmer in a robe and hood emerged and locked the doors. This must be Calcelmo.

“Ah!” Falnas exclaimed with loud confidence. “This is a wonderful day indeed. The eminent historian Calcelmo, I can scarcely believe it” Altmer just _loved_ being addressed with all sorts of titles and praise.

“Yes, I am he,” the mer said, turning. “What is this regarding?” He had a goatee, unusual for an Altmer, in a silvery grey colour. He didn’t look that old, however, by Altmer standards at least. Falnas had expected a wizened and dried up old scholar, but this mer was ‘only’ in his late middle ages.

“Esteemed Calcelmo,” Falnas grovelled, “We have come far, and we would be honoured beyond measure if we were permitted a glimpse around your fascinating museum. We share your great passion for the Dwemer culture and would consider it a grand learning experience to see your collection.”

“Oh?” he asked, still sceptical. “ _You_ are historians? You certainly... aren’t dressed the part.”

“Well,” Falnas explained, “We were adventurers at heart, but it’s through our exploration of an old Dwemer ruin that we, well... caught the virus, so to speak.”

“Ah yes, I see. More like the adventurous archaeologist types then?”

“Indeed,” Falnas said, changing his tone to make it sound like they were two guys that understood one another. “Would have gone for the whip as my weapon of choice if I’d known.”

“Err, yes. Well. Much as I applaud your passion, and much as I understand your desire, I’m afraid the museum is currently off-limits. We’ve apprehended an attempted thief, and some of the objects are too valuable to keep available to the public.”

Damn, this was a stroke of bad luck. Falnas cursed the rank amateur who’d apparently been caught just a few days before. “I see. We’re not here for stealing, though. Well,” he added with a chuckle of camaraderie, “except perhaps a lot of inspiration.”

Calcelmo wasn’t convinced. “Well, being an admirer, I’m sure you appreciate the need to keep my research a secret.”

Dammit, what a tenacious prick. “I understand. It’s a sad thing that we’re denied this opportunity for learning, but of course, with your research being so valuable to the world, we understand that you want to be cautious. It has been an honour just meeting you, we shouldn’t be greedy.”

Falnas hoped that had done the trick, and yes, Calcelmo harrumphed and said, “Well. What kind of mentor would I be if I denied a potential student a glimpse at the master’s genius.” He fished a key out of his pocket. “This is the key to the museum, browse at your leisure. I must insist, however, that my laboratory remain strictly off-limits.”

The key to the Falmer language was reputedly in his laboratory, so it was a partial victory, but Falnas realized he’d blow it all by pushing it. He held out his hand, letting the heavy bronze key drop in it. “This is a grand day indeed,” he dramatized, feigning stars in his eyes as he looked at the key in his hand. “Come, my love, let us take in all the knowledge we can!”

Sapphire didn’t feel much like acting, so she just grunted in response.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Remember, keep to the museum only.”

“Of course, we would never misuse your generosity.”

Pft, as if.

Falnas turned the key in the lock and they went inside, closing the door behind them.

“Talos’ britches,” Sapphire muttered, “I was about to throw up from all the ass kissing you were doing.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“At the cost of our dignity.”

He shrugged, peering through the gloomy museum. “We’re thieves, liars and frauds. You want dignity, go serve in the temple of Mara. Now come on. Let’s look for this key.”

“Hmph. Laboratory, right?”

“Probably.”

The museum was mostly dark, though a few Dwemer light-devices were still functional, casting a pale blue glow over the museum exhibits, and the shadows played across the walls, making the place look like it was full of monstrous silhouettes waiting to come to life and tear them limb from limb.

“Shit,” Falnas said quietly. “This place would make for a good horror story in this light. Should write one.”

“Yeah, you said it, about museum exhibits coming to life,” Sapphire agreed. “Five nights at Falnas’.”

“Would be a good title,” he admitted. “But I’m sure these museum exhibits are just junk. Laboratory’s probably at the end of the hall.” He pointed at the double doors on the other side of the museum.

“I”ll get this open,” Sapphire said, kneeling by the doors and taking out her lockpicks. “You check if the key isn’t anywhere around here.”

“Which one? The lab key or the Falmer language key?”

Sapphire rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we funny.”

He was, if he thought so himself. As Sapphire worked (and grunted the occasional curse under her breath), Falnas looked at every display case, looking for a scroll, a paper, a book, or anything that could possibly be the key. After all, it might as well be here and then they wouldn’t even have to break into the laboratory. But the only paper things he found were scraps, or blueprints or schematics to Dwemer devices. “Got nuthin’, Sapphire.”

“Salright, I’m almost in,” Sapphire grunted back, her tongue out the side of her mouth as she carefully turned her pick to push the last tumbler out of the way. There was a _click_ , and from Sapphire, a satisfied, “here we go.”

They carefully pushed the door open and found themselves in the laboratory. Well, if one could call it that. It was a complex of passageways, as it seemed Dwemer cities often were (did these people actually live in one long corridor?), with various devices on various tables, picked apart and half put together again. Or not at all, in some cases.

“He’s probably got the key in a prominent place,” Sapphire said as they marched through the hallway, taking care to be somewhat expeditious in their search, lest their new shining beacon of wisdom returned early. They didn’t want to be found in the laboratory, it would be much better to just do a clean in-and-out, with no one the wiser until they actually discovered the key was missing.

“Yeah,” Falnas said, “Look for display cases or desks. That’s probably where – ”

They both stopped at what they saw, dumbstruck.

“That’s... a prominent place alright,” Sapphire remarked.

“Think this is it?”

“Pretty sure.”

“We’re buggered.”

“You are, at least.”

It was the key, they were both certain of it. But it wasn’t a paper, or a book, or a scroll. Nope.

It was a stone tablet the width of a man and half as high. A black marble slab of about fifteen centimetres thick. It must weigh a tonne. By the hairy pooper of Sotha Sil, this thing really was unstealable.

“Well,” Falnas said sourly, pointing at the slab. “Which side is lightest? You can take that.”

“We could smash it,” Sapphire said, equally dully. “Then cart the pieces out. I’m sure we’ll be done by morning.”

“This is some serious crap,” Falnas merely remarked, scratching his head. “Maybe we can copy it. I’m sure it won’t take us more than a week?”

Sapphire seemed to come to a realization. “Hold on, hold on. I’ve got an idea.”

Scooting to one of the tables, she began furiously rooting around inside the drawers and boxes, rummaging around for whatever it was she needed for her idea, while Falnas looked on with a frown.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, throwing a roll of paper over her shoulder so it landed at Falnas’ feet.

“Uh, Sapphire? The copying thing was a joke. A bad one, but a joke.”

“Shut up,” she snapped at him, but he could tell she was grinning. “I’ve got a better idea. Ugh, a puzzle box? You find these things _everywhere_ it seems.” After rummaging a while longer, she let out, “Fucking _finally_.” She came back, holding a few chunks of charcoal between her fingers. “Can’t believe it took me so long to find those.”

“I feel compelled to repeat that what I said about copying was a joke.”

She put her hands in her sides and gave him an impatient look. “I’m going to lock you in here if you don’t stop being snarky. Just watch.”

She took the roll of paper and unrolled it, taking one of the large sheets and holding them against the tablet. Then she set the side of the piece of charcoal against it and began making broad dark strokes.

And through the strokes, the lettering on the tablet appeared in darker shades.

A rubbing! Dammit, why hadn’t he thought of that. He slapped his forehead. “Sapphire, if the laws of nature allowed it, I would bear your children.”

She ignored the compliment. “Rub, move it.”

The sheets of paper were far too small for the tablet, but they could always reconstruct the pieces later. The rubbed like two idiots, copying the tablet onto paper at a dazzling speed. Only once, Sapphire had to get up and search for more charcoal, and in an hour or two, the entire tablet was copied. Hopefully. It wasn’t easy to keep track of what had been rubbed over and what hadn’t been.

“Good thinking, Sapphire,” Falnas grunted as he finished the last sheet. His muscles were sore and his fingers chapped, but it was done.

“Thanks. I remembered because I had to do it on an inscribed shield once.”

He stuffed the papers in his bag. “Let’s get out of here.”

Get out they did, Sapphire carefully closing the door and locking it again. They traversed the museum and opened the double doors to Understone Keep, and found themselves face to face with an Altmer, but it wasn’t Calcelmo. This one was younger.

“Uncle told me you came to see his museum,” he said with venomous friendliness. “Surely you didn’t... steal anything, did you?”

“Of course not,” Falnas said, smiling broadly. “The very thought of robbing such a brilliant man.”

“Can I... see your bag?”

“Alright, alright,” Falnas admitted with overdramatic gesture. “We did steal some paper and some charcoal to make some notes. But surely – ”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Your bag please.”

Falnas held his bag open, and as Calcelmo’s cousin looked inside, he quickly rifled his fingers through the pages. “See? Nothing in there.”

The Altmer looked down his nose at him. “I’ll have to search you.”

With a roll of his eyes, Falnas put his bag down and spread his arms. “Go on.”

The git clearly didn’t know what he was doing, patting him down like a total amateur. He’d hidden blades and stolen goods from better searchers before. And this time he wasn’t even hiding anything.

To his satisfaction, or perhaps lack thereof, the cousin didn’t find anything. He turned to Sapphire. “You too.”

“Touch me and you’ll eat your toes,” Sapphire merely growled at him.

Falnas winced, thinking he’d start making a fuss, but it seemed Sapphire’s answer had made an impression. “Er... yes. The key please?”

He held out his hand and Falnas dropped the key in it, along with a septim. “For the paper and charcoal. Do tell your uncle we enjoyed the visit immensely, will you?”

His face still sour and suspicious, the Altmer merely said, “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

“Good thing he didn’t know about how secret that key was,” Sapphire said under her breath as they left.

“Mm. But technically, we didn’t _steal_ anything.”

“Except some paper and charcoal.”

The return travel was the same as the away trip had been, occasionally questions but mostly silence. It was late morning when they arrived back in Winterhold, and they ran into Enthir in the main street.

“Ah...” the linguist breathed, visibly nervous. “I... didn’t think you’d be back.”

“How’s that?” Falnas asked.

“You should... see the Frozen Hearth.”

Two guards stood posted outside the door. What in Oblivion had happened there?

“Dagur, his wife and... and little girl. Dead, all... all three of them,” Enthir stammered, sounding as if he thought he was next. “Poisoned.”

“That’s a bummer,” Falnas could only say. He’d been right about the Dunmer woman, and what she’d been there for.

Sapphire looked away, shook her head and said quietly. “Maybe we should have made it our business.”

“So why are you so afraid?”

“Well...” the mer explained. “You show up, three people get murdered, and then you come back, along with the woman who’s been spying on me for a while now. It certainly looks like you’re here to finish the job.”

Falnas burst into laughter. “What, right here in the street? Don’t be ridiculous. The one who did this was Brotherhood, most likely. We’re Thieves’ Guild. We’re not like those maniacs, we don’t kill people.” He threw his arm over Enthir’s shoulder. “Seriously, friend, you’ve been worried over nothing. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.”

They’d given Enthir the rubbing and the journal, and told him to translate from the ending backward, and to let them know as soon as he found something that proved who’d murdered Gallus. Then they’d paid for a bad in a wing of the longhouse, which had been repurposed as a temporary flophouse for travellers until the inn was examined, cleaned and given a new owner.

They must have slept for only an hour or two before Enthir shook Falnas awake.

“Mmhhh?”

“You told me to wake you as soon as I found anything.”

Falnas wiped the sand from his eyes. It was just a late afternoon nap, but he could have slept forever, he felt. He looked around and saw Sapphire still lying in the next bed, her back to him. Probably still asleep. Good, you never knew what that journal would say. “Let’s uh… step aside for a bit.”

“M-hm.”

Night was falling, and snow fell again, though not on Falnas and Enthir, they had an overhang over their heads. Still, Falnas had to hug himself and stomp his feet against the cold. “So what’d you find out?”

He opened the page, his hand-written translation next to it. “It’s rather clear, to be honest.”

Falnas read the last entry.

_I don’t think he’ll go that far as to kill me, but I need to be wary, nothing is certain these days and even good people are changing all around me. At least I can trust Karliah. Mercer’s up to something. I think he’s… doing things to the shrine. I’ll confront him tonight. I’ve already instructed Karliah to flee if things go bad, but I’m sure it won’t come to that. Mercer’s been acting strange lately, but he’s been our friend for a long time, and a fellow Nightingale. I have to know what he’s been doing, and I hope he’ll have a good explanation. I’d hate to see the friendship of the three of us get ruined. I have to stay positive. Mercer will have an explanation._

Clearly, Mercer had an explanation. One that involved eliminating whoever found him out. It had made him head of the Guild.

It was proven now. Karliah couldn’t possible have conjured an entire journal in Falmer, and the signatures and writing styles would match Gallus’. Daedra-damned Mercer had had them all fooled. Still, there was a bit of relief too. He hadn’t bet on the wrong horse by following Karliah. Because despite the stab, despite the banter afterwards, it had been a leap of faith, no matter which way you looked at it, and it could have gotten him seriously burned. More importantly, he was relieved that now he could prove to the Guild that Mercer had been the shitbag in all of this. He had to get back as soon as possible, and bring Sapphire with him. If this didn’t convince him, nothing would.

“Judging from your response, I…” Enthir said carefully, “…assume this confirms an earlier suspicion.”

“It does,” Falnas said. “Hold on one second.”

He woke Sapphire and gave her the diary and translation, giving her time to look it over, then returned to Enthir, outside. “I appreciate this, Enthir. The Guild appreciates this.”

“I know how you can repay me,” the mer said abruptly.

“Speak, and your mouth will open,” Falnas said. “What do you have in mind?”

He leaned in closer. “I’m not just a linguist. I’ve been trading College relics under the table, you know, without the guard or the College knowing. Students bring me things they… spirited away, and… well, you know.”

Interesting. “So you’re a freelancer?” Falnas said in mock disapproval. “We don’t like those in the Guild, you know that.” So that was why he’d been so damn nervous.

“Well… well…” Enthir bumbled, “I just… I haven’t… It wasn’t really…”

Falnas chuckled, “Lighten up, Enthir. You’ve just done us a huge favour, and at no small danger to yourself.” That last bit was exaggerated, but it would stroke Enthir’s self-image a bit. “And the fact that we haven’t found you out yet, you sly little git, means you’re obviously discrete about what you do.” Falnas already had an idea what he wanted.

“I… could, I mean, with the right incentive, expand this little business I have running. So I was hoping you’d… well…”

“Consider making you our official fence in Winterhold?”

“I, well… yes.”

“Well, I’m just one person in the Guild, and I’m not the top guy,” though he wondered who would be, now, “but I’ll definitely recommend you. This whole ‘magical items’ racket might prove a lucrative opportunity for the Guild. We’d be needing a piece of the action on those too, you understand.”

“Of course. In fact, the Guild would get first crack at new items I receive, before any private buyers.”

Falnas smiled broadly. “Mer, I like the way you talk. I’ll see to it. Don’t worry, I’ll convince them. Expect an Initiate with the terms soon.”

“We’re both gonna profit from this,” Enthir assured him. “Everyone wins.”

“Except the College.”

Enthir grinned back. “Except the College.”

Sapphire appeared in the doorway, an angry scowl on her face. Falnas had anticipated this. She was going to be pissed to have to say she’d been wrong and he’d been right.

“I’m not going to waste a lot of words on this,” she said, still glaring, holding up the diary, the translated page tucked inside, “and just remind you of the fact that you only have this proof because I let you, and helped you, find it. So don’t get smug, don’t act like I owe you an apology. I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

Being smug was tempting, but she was right. She could have just detained him, or ratted him out to Mercer, or done a number of other things instead of giving him the chance to prove his innocence. She’d been suspicious, yes, but she’d also not taken sides without evidence. “No, Sapphire, I’m not going to be smug. I know how it looked, and what Mercer told you. You could have just gotten me killed or arrested. That would have been much easier for you. And despite that, you helped me prove myself. All I can say is you made the right choice, and I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

“So what now?” she asked.

“Now we go meet Karliah, we take this back to the Guild, and try not to get stabbed or pincushioned before we can make our case. Then we see what damage Mercer has done while we were gone, and _then_ we set up a fencing contract for Enthir here.”

She nodded. “Right. Come on then, I’d like to see this Karliah of yours.”

Falnas led her to the agreed-upon point, a small camp halfway between Winterhold and Riften. When they arrived, Falnas hadn’t even reached the tent yet before he heard a bowstring being drawn.

“Not again, Karliah. We both remember what happened last time you shot me.”

“Who’s she?” Karliah’s voice came from behind and above them. The woman had actually climbed a tree.

“She’s Mercer’s man. Well, woman. He sent her to keep watch on me, but she realized the truth when we translated the journal.”

“Can she be trusted?”

Sapphire stomped her foot. “I’m standing right here!”

“Yes, Karliah, she can be,” Falnas answered calmly. “Now please, lower the bow and come out of that tree. What are you, Bosmer?”

There was the rustling of pine needles and a thud as her feet came down. Only then did Falnas turn around. Karliah still wore her cloak and hood, and her purple eyes looked at them suspiciously. The bow was lowered but still in her hand, the arrow between her two forefingers. She could draw the string and release in a heartbeat.

“So you’re Karliah?” Sapphire said, her arms crossed. She naturally took care to sound unimpressed. “Got a weird way of proving your innocence.”

“When people around you get fooled by Mercer’s fabrications, proving your innocence in a normal way just won’t work,” Karliah shot back. “Who are you?”

“Sapphire. Joined right after Mercer took over. That’s all you need to know.”

Karliah didn’t give her any more attention and turned to Falnas. “Do you have the journal?”

He took it out of his pack and held it up. “Enthir translated the last entry. It’s all we need to prove your innocence.”

Karliah nodded. “Brynjolf still there?”

“M-hm.”

“Good. He’s got a firm head on his shoulders. Well, for a Nord at least.”

“Hey.”

“You know what I mean, lass.”

“No, I don’t,” Sapphire glared.

“Ugh, don’t be difficult. Hasty words, I apologize,” Karliah conceded. “I meant, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, for a Nord _man_.”

“Better.”

Falnas decided to let the girls have their moment instead of speaking up.

“As I was saying, we speak to Brynjolf first. Then Mallory. We leave Vex and Vekel out of it until we’ve convinced those two. Tonilia neither. She’s smart, and reasonable, but she’s also extremely loyal to Mercer. It’ll take a lot to convince her.”

“We’ll get it done. We’ve got proof, right?”

“Let’s get to Riften,” Sapphire said. “This isn’t the best atmosphere.”

“You’re right about that,” Karliah said. “I’ll probably be intolerable until I can prove my innocence and get some of the tension off me.” She looked at Sapphire. “We’ll start over fresh then, that work?”

“Suppose it’ll have to do.”

As tense as the walk to Markarth with Sapphire had been, this one was double the ‘fun’. Sapphire didn’t say a word during the entire walk, but Karliah did at least defrost somewhat. Not towards her, because she told Falnas that ‘if she wasn’t going to bother being nice’, then neither was she. Falnas silently considered it all pretty childish.

Karliah was inquisitive during the slog, asking how the Guild had changed, and who was still there. They’d been talking mostly about crazy Maven, who was using the Guild as her personal commodity (‘typical for Mercer to sell out the Guild’), and about the state of affairs in Riften (‘a Brotherhood member? That’s never good news’).

It wasn’t until Riften was good and well into view that Sapphire finally opened her mouth.

“We can’t just walk in.”

“Mm, what?” Falnas said, pulled from his thoughts.

“We can’t just walk in. They’ll arrest us on the spot.”

With a snort, Falnas told her, “Sapphire, the Guild’s in Maven’s pocket. They value their bribes too much to arrest us.”

“Not anymore,” Sapphire said with a shake of her head. “Something’s happened. They already took Brynjolf in for a night ‘to set an example’. Set him free afterwards because they couldn’t pin anything on him, but walking around openly in broad daylight’s a no-no for now.”

“Why? What happened?”

She nudged her head at the city. “Brynjolf and Delvin will tell you.”

Karliah chuckled. “We’re Thieves. We shouldn’t walk around openly in broad daylight at all. We can do without that luxury. Come, let me show you new kids how we used to get around.”

She led them to a section of the city wall, out of the field of view of the guard towers, overgrown with creepers and weed.

“This brings back memories,” she said quietly. “Never thought I’d be able to use it again.” She turned to Falnas and said an honest, “Thanks for this.”

“It’s peachy.”

She stuck her fingers in the ground, felt around a bit, and the next moment, the entire thatch of weed came up to reveal a manhole.

“Cute huh?” she said, not without pride. “The plants are a perfect replica of living ones. No one ever thinks about looking for a trap door here.”

Upon close examination, Falnas indeed saw that the plants were made out of fibers woven together, and fabric cut to resemble flowers. It was crazy accurate and if you weren’t looking for it, you’d never find it.

“Cute enough for us not to know about it,” Sapphire grunted.

“Not my fault,” Karliah merely said, lowering herself down the hole, Falnas and Sapphire following.

It was a brief jaunt through an old part of the Ratway (even older than the rest) before they found themselves in the familiar maze, close to the cistern. Now it was simply business to wait until Brynjolf showed himself. They hid in the shadows, at the end of a dead-end corridor, and watched who would walk past.

Vex came through after a few minutes, buckling her knife belt. Probably going out on a job, so she wouldn’t be back too early. A little later, Tonilia skulked by, going into the cistern with a wooden box under her arm. Then there was no one for what seemed like an eternity, but eventually Brynjolf came out of the cistern, busily scratching his backside. Falnas could relate to the ‘when men are alone’-syndrome.

“Brynjolf,” Karliah said quietly, but even a quiet voice was like thunder in these silent corridors.

“Who goes there?” Brynjolf asked, jumping to attention and drawing his knife. When he recognized her, his eyes went wide. “Karliah?” He needed a second to overcome his surprise, then said, “I’m not letting you destroy our Guild. You’re going to have to get past me if you want to – ”

“Don’t be silly, Brynjolf,” Falnas said amicably, also emerging from the shadows to scare him a second time.

“Falnas? You’re... you’re dead. Mercer said – ”

“Mercer said a lot of things. But the two biggest lies he told were that Karliah killed me... and that Karliah killed Gallus.”

“I... wh... how... what are you...” Brynjolf stammered, utterly confused. Falnas felt for his poor friend, but he’d soon be over his confusion.

Sapphire completed the startle-Brynjolf hat trick, by becoming visible herself and saying, “It’s true, Brynjolf. Mercer’s been playing us. Like fucking marionettes.”

Brynjolf was now completely struck mute, until Karliah asked, “Is anyone in there?”

“Uh y... yes, but...”

“Then we can’t discuss it in the cistern yet. Come on, follow us to a safe spot where we can explain.”

Brynjolf’s eyes went to Falnas. “I’m not sure if...”

“Don’t worry,” Falnas said. “It’s not a trap. Trust me, Brynjolf, we’re friends, right?”

“I... suppose so.”

“Come on, let’s go somewhere we can light some torches, so we can show you our proof.”

Reluctantly, Brynjolf followed them back to the older section of the Ratway, where Karliah led them to a small room that looked like it had once belonged to the people that cleaned the sewers, to store their equipment. All of it was gone now, just two stone benches opposite each other.

They explained the whole thing to him, showing the diary. Falnas could tell Brynjolf was struggling with the truth, but he eventually accepted it. He went to get Delvin, and they told him the story too, after he overcame his surprise at seeing three people who were highly unlikely to be together in one place without killing each other. Delvin’s acceptance of the truth went in a similar way, except that he was more relieved than Brynjolf. At least the Guild wasn’t cursed.

As they sat in the old cleaners’ room, all five of them, Falnas asked, “So what’s this whole business with us not being able to walk around openly anymore?”

“Oh, that,” Brynjolf said. “We’re about to hold a meeting on that, when Vex is back.”

“Can’t invite you though,” Delvin said, “Mercer’s still in there. Bloody lyin’ prick.”

Falnas nodded. “Let us know when it’s done, alright?”

Delvin nodded. “We’ll be back in an hour or so.”

They waited in the dismal underground storage room, not looking forward to sitting there for over an hour.

Turned out they didn’t have to wait that long. Footsteps came running, straight for them and with weapons drawn, they leapt to their feet.

“Think they betrayed us?” Karliah asked.

Falnas and Sapphire simultaneously answered, “No.”

It was Brynjolf alright. “You lot,” he announced, panting from the sprint, “We had announce your return a bit more suddenly. Delvin’s breaking the news right now.”

“What?” Karliah hissed, “You did _what_?”

“It’s Mercer,” Brynjolf explained. “The bastard, he... Come on, I’ll show you.”

They returned to the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf leading them inside, while quietly saying, “They’re still dealing with it. Give ‘em the time to let it sink in.”

The looks that greeted them went from curious to hostile, but except for Tonilia, only Initiates were there, and thankfully, Tonilia’s expression was entirely neutral.

The second thing they noticed, behind Mercer’s counter, was the double doors of the vault, standing open. Revealing an entirely empty room.

“Dirty knobhead’s cleaned out the vault,” Delvin growled redundantly. “Been doin’ it over the course of sev’ral days. Shoulda realized when we kept seein’ ‘im, movin’ sacks around.”

“So... Falnas asked, “We’re penniless?”

Delvin nodded. “As good as. Got a few small things left. Most’s gone though.”

“On the bright side,” Brynjolf said with a faint smile, “If people aren’t convinced he’s the rotten apple in all of this, it’ll be a cold day in Oblivion.”

“Crisis meetin’,” Delvin announced. “All you lot,” he meant the Initiates, “Clear off. Ragged Flagon’s taken for the next hour.”

With mutters and grunts, the Initiates vacated the Flagon.

Vex had to be brought up to speed when she returned, which was an arduous and drawn-out process, because well, it was Vex, but eventually, she accepted what had happened, and with a lot of complaints, sat in at the meeting table.

In Guild tradition, the meeting was carried out with the Ragged Flagon completely dark, snares set at all the doors, and only three candles on the round table the participating members sat at.

“Roight,” Devin announced. “With everyone clued in, we need to start discussin’ strategy.”

The room was utterly dark, save for the candles illuminating every member’s face. Everyone leaned into the table, so the words were as quiet as possible. Despite the circumstances, Falnas did take a moment to appreciate how connected this all was. Even intimate. It was like a secret little boys’ club, only for adults.

Karliah sat next to him, her leg touching his. He risked a quick glance at her face, and was again struck by how beautiful she was, the candlelight flickering against her purple eyes. She was concentrated on Delvin and hadn’t noticed him looking.

Brynjolf broke the spell on him by saying, “We’ve got two problems. One, our vault’s cleaned out. Not a life-threatening problem, but one we need to fix right away, because you can bet that a lot of those Initiates won’t be coming back after this, even after an hour. More will renege if they realize we can’t pay ‘em.”

Vex contributed a hissing, “Fair weather friends. I see one who walked out on us, I’m beating him up right in the street.”

“Yes, well, this leads us to the other problem,” Brynjolf said. Right, the guard suddenly becoming more aggressive. How had that happened? “The problem we’ll call the Lioness situation.”

Lioness? Hadn’t he heard that before? Oh, right, the blonde vigilante.

“Falnas doesn’t know about that yet,” Sapphire said. “Karliah neither, obviously.”

“Roight,” Delvin said with a nod. “Long story short, Mjoll the Lioness?”

“Yeah,” Falnas answered. “I know her.”

“ _Knew_ her,” Brynjolf corrected. “She was fished out of the canal a few days ago. Naked, nibbled on by all kinds of fauna, and very much dead.”

So _that_ was why. Dammit who’d been that stupid? The Guard would always look the other way as long as people didn’t start dropping bodies. A few brewers, that could all be overlooked, mostly because there wasn’t a clear suspect, and the only one who could _be_ a clear suspect was bankrolling the corruption in the Guard, but this? A highly-respected member of the community, someone the citizens looked to for safety, murdered? The Jarl wouldn’t let this stand, and the Guard would have no choice but to stop turning blind eyes to all the crime. “What kind of stupid latrine brain would bump off Mjoll?” Falnas asked incredulously. “You’d have to be pretty daft to do something so unnecessary and stupid.”

“Think on it, mate,” Delvin said. “It happened on the evenin’ you left, prob’ly. Wasn’t there someone we’d been natterin’ to that day?”

Was there? Oh, of course. There was. “The Brotherhood girl?”

“You bet.” Brynjolf nodded. “They found Mjoll dead by a crapload of stab wounds. Searching her house, they concluded that she was killed in, or near, the bath tub, because it still had water in it and blood everywhere.”

“Weren’t no muggin’,” Delvin said. “Was a right royal assassination. Perfect preparation an’ timin’, but sloppy execution. Typical for younger Brother’ood members.”

“I think we all suspect,” Sapphire said casually, “who hired that little shit.”

“So does the Guard,” Vex said. “They’ve cut Maven off, no more favours, no more looking the other way. And here’s the kicker...”

Delvin completed, “... they done declared the Guild to be Maven’s private gang. Which means...”

Falnas sighed. “We’re all accessory to murder.”

“We gotta do summat ‘bout both of these problems, mate,” Delvin said. “An’ we gotta do it quick.”

“Any ideas?” Karliah asked. When she was met with challenging looks from across the table, she said, “I’m back, I was exonerated, and I’m still part of this Guild. In fact,” she added, “with Gallus dead and Mercer gone, I’m acting head of this Guild, aren’t I?”

Scoffs and snorts came from all sides of the table except Falnas.

“Steady on,” Delvin said, gentle but decided. “I reckon it’s best that all of us together act as head o’ the Guild for the time bein’.”

Karliah shrugged. “As you wish. But anyway, any ideas?”

“Delvin had something, didn’t you, Delvin?” Tonilia said, in her always-gentle voice.

“Yeah, set some things in motion for problem number two at least. Reached out to my Brother’ood contacts. Guard’ll probably get the sticks out o’ their bumholes when they catch a culprit. So we give ‘em one.”

“Ouch,” Falnas said. “Going to make Brotherhood girl swing from a rope?”

“Nah, mate, better. Brother’ood girl’s gunna give us a name. Then we turn Brother’ood girl over to the Guard. She gives _them_ a name, then Brother’ood girl ‘miraculously’ escapes.”

“That counts as evidence. Guards arrest Maven,” Brynjolf took over, “Guards do whatever the blazes they want with her. Guards are content. Guards get off our backs.”

“And the Maven problem’s been dealt with too, then?” Sapphire finished. “No more bossy Maven telling us what to do and making us risk our necks. Two birds with one stone.”

“Wot I was thinkin’,” Delvin agreed.

“And problem number one? If we can’t pay the Initiates, we’ll end up with rogue thieves everywhere, and that could mean our downfall.”

“You and Delvin know this Brotherhood chick,” Brynjolf said. “It’s best if you two occupy yourselves with that. Meanwhile, I suggest Vex, Sapphire and I go steal some things of a very high value to make sure we can keep paying the Initiates and pay the most pressing costs. I might have an idea. Tonilia will have to be working overtime.”

“I can handle it.”

“What about Karliah?” Sapphire asked. “She’s back right? So she can pull her weight.”

Karliah responded before Brynjolf could. “Don’t worry. I’ve got something I can do. Something no one else can.”

“It’s gonna be tryin’ times,” Delvin said, “But we’ll pull through.”

 

 


	36. Keljarn: On the Scent

 

**Keljarn**

**On the Scent**

**Jorrvaskr**

 

“Sod this,” Keljarn barked abruptly, leaping to his feet. “I can’t just sit here and drink.”

It was what they’d been doing, for a few days now. Some half-hearted sparring, quite a bit of drinking. Farkas especially had been deep in his cups the last days. The Silver Hand was obliterated, but they all knew the job was left undone. The bastard that had killed Ria, Njada and Kodlak was still there. Skjor’s murder had been avenged, but the other three… only half. And though nobody anted to admit it, it brought their spirits down. Every evening had been like this, some eating, a lot of drinking, and little talking.

“So what then?” Vilkas asked. “What do you intend to do?”

Keljarn wasn’t going to take any more of it. “I’m going back outside. And I’m going to question every man, woman, child and horse I see.”

“We’ve already questioned everybody, Keljarn”, Aela said gently. “Whoever did this is long gone, and if he doesn’t have ties to the Silver Hand, there’s no way we’ll ever find him.”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn’t have ties to the Silver Hand’?” Keljarn asked incredulously. “He killed for them, that has to mean there’s ties?”

“Not necessarily,” Vilkas said, staring at his empty cup. “Could just be a hired killer.”

“My ass,” Keljarn snapped back. “No ‘just a hired killer’ takes out three fighters, one of which was the Nine damned Harbinger.”

“There is a possibility,” Athis joined in the conversation. The mer had just about recovered (enough to drink with the others), and he’d been listening to the others’ stories about the assassinations, making a few observations they hadn’t thought of yet. And he was about to make one more. “A possibility that our assassin didn’t have ties to the Silver Hand, but wasn’t just a hired killer either.”

Everyone’s attention went to Athis.

“There is a secret society of highly trained assassins here in Skyrim. We all know which one.”

Keljarn didn’t. “What? There is?” Incredulously, he asked the others, “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

Farkas ignored him and said to Athis, “You’re full of it. The Brotherhood are a bunch of Daedra-worshipping maniacs. When they kill someone, it’s almost like a ritual. Remember the Jarl’s nephew a year or two ago? Aela, you saw that murder scene. Black candles, sigils smeared in blood, it was like Mehruns Dagon’s basement in there.”

“The Brotherhood?” Keljarn asked. “You mean, _the_ Brotherhood?”

“Yes,” Aela said. “ _The_ Brotherhood. But really, we don’t even now it even exists, and yes, Farkas, that murder site looked nothing like ours. Still…”

Athis shrugged. “It’s worth looking into.”

Keljarn sat back down. “Alright. Tell me everything there is to know about the Brotherhood. I didn’t even know it was real.”

“We don’t either,” Aela said. “But the stories are persistent. I suppose it may be possible. After all, the Dark Brotherhood, _if_ it’s even real, might not always commit murder like creepy nut jobs. It’s not impossible that they also commit normal killings, for money.”

“M-hm.”

“The Dark Brotherhood,” Athis explained, “is an organisation of assassins. People contact them by performing a ritual. The Brotherhood decides if the offering is sufficient, and if it is, they send someone to eliminate the target.” He cleared his throat. “Supposedly.”

“They’re very expensive,” Vilkas pointed out. “I doubt the Silver Hand has the money for a Brotherhood killing, let alone three.”

“Maybe they had a benefactor,” Keljarn said. “Or called in some favours.” He really wanted to believe this was possible.

Aela shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t change anything though.”

“Not like you can just knock on their door,” Vilkas agreed. “If they even exist.”

“Well,” Athis said, “There’s the Black Sacrament, supposedly the ritual that calls the Brotherhood’s attention.”

“So if we perform that… Dark Sacrament thing – ”

“Black Sacrament.”

“Whatever. If we perform it, we’ll be able to call a Brotherhood member over here. And then wring him for information.”

Aela shook her head. “Keljarn. Even if all this is true. Even if the Brotherhood responds, which I doubt they will since they aren’t stupid, they’re likely to be a guild of highly trained assassins. You don’t just ‘wring one for information’.”

Farkas nodded. “If they’re real, they’re not the type of people you want out for your blood.”

Angrily, Keljarn threw himself back into his chair. “There _has_ to be a way,” he growled, biting his nails. “I’m not just giving up until I’ve done all I can. Even if it means pissing off those backstabbers.”

“If they exist,” Athis added.

“If they exist.”

“Keljarn,” Aela said again. “This is – ”

“No, Aela. Either they exist or they don’t. If they don’t exist, there’s no danger in contacting them. If they do exist, then they can lead us to the assassin. And in that case it’s an opportunity we have to take, no matter how dangerous.”

Abruptly, he got up again.

“Where are you going?” Vilkas asked.

“To the library. This Black Sacrament thing must be mentioned in some text somewhere. I’m not giving up,” he called to them, stomping out. He made straight for the Jarl’s longhouse. The library there was modest, but it did have quite a few volumes on cults and sects, the proselytizing priest had told him a few days ago, when he gave Keljarn some unwated advice about reading up on Talos and the old gods and all that junk.

“Hello Keljarn,” the Jarl’s housecarl greeted him when he approached the castle. “Business with the Jarl? I’m afraid it’s late, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“Evening, Lydia. No, I’d just like to have a few moments in your library, if that’s alright.”

“Oh. Sure. Need some help?”

He’d talked to Lydia a few times these last few days, and she’d always been helpful with the investigation, even though she didn’t have any information to help with. She’d asked around on the Companions’ behalf, and told the guards to be wary of any suspicious individuals. Even though her efforts had been fruitless, it had been quite nice of her to help without asking anything in return. But her good intentions aside, she might not understand if he told her he needed to know how to perform the Black Sacrament. The last thing he needed was to be accused of something illegal. On the other hand, the search would go much quicker with her help, so he opted for an intermediate solution.

“Well, if you could just point me to the right books, that’d be nice.”

“Of course, it’d be my pleasure.”

She led him to the library, and he asked her where the section on cults and sects was. It wasn’t really a section, just a few books, because after all, it was a personal library and not one of those massive institutions, but still, it was a start. The books in question were at the top of the shelf, and Keljarn climbed the ladder to reach them.

“Could you just take these?” he asked Lydia, who waited at the bottom of the ladder. He held out two books and she took them. “Oh, and this one too.” He spotted another one called _The Children of Mephala_. Oh, definitely that one. “And also this.” He also saw two more, _The Brothers of Darkness_ , and _The Night Mother’s Truth_. Oh, he was certainly grabbing those too. He lowered the books to Lydia, who took them, muttering, “I am sworn to carry your burdens.”

She laid the books out on the reading table for him, looking at them with a sceptical eye. “This is… interesting reading.” Her eyes went up to him, the candles making the light dance on her angled but pretty face. “I… hope this has nothing to do with the killer you’re looking for.”

“I hope it does,” he said flatly. Realizing it was probably an unsafe thing to say, he went back on himself, “I mean, it’s mostly assassination methods that I’m looking for. How to identify them and all.”

Lydia didn’t seem satisfied, but she dropped it regardless. “Mm. I’ll be at the gate, if there’s anything you need, let me know.”

“Will do, thanks, Lydia.”

“Don’t mention it.” She gave him a nod and turned, leaving the room.

Keljarn began thumbing through the pages of the books, discarding them as he went, if they didn’t look like they contained the things he needed. And what he needed most was a description of how to perform the Black Sacrament.

Hours went by as he pored through the volumes, getting more frustrated with every book he dropped on the ‘useless’-pile. Lydia had come by at some point, saying she was relieved and heading up to catch some sleep, and to wish him goodnight. He’d hidden his frustration and smiled at her, telling her to sleep well, and then resumed his searching.

The ‘useless’ pile was now all but one book. A thin little bundle of papers called _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_. He had to get through this before sleep pushed his eyelids entirely closed

Sighing at the title, which didn’t foretell much good, he opened it, and froze.

_Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear._

This was it.

Reading the book further, all sleep driven from him, he learned about the ritual that had to be used to reach out to the Dark Brotherhood, here described as the Children of the Night Mother. Licking his lips, he turned page after page, taking in the information.

The ritual involved a lot of symbolism and hokey superstitious acts, but the prayer, the prayer was most important.

Looking over his shoulder to see if he was truly alone, he said the words aloud. Quietly at first, but more forceful as his confidence grew. And it became his own version, which he recited purely for himself, and be damned whoever heard it.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Your sins, and those of your children. The fear you’ve wrought shall be returned tenfold, the pain you wrought a hundredfold. I will find who committed this cowardly deed, and if it is one of yours, not even your protection will save him. This I swear, I will find this murderer and make him suffer, make him beg for death. If he’s one of yours, give him to me now and I will spare your fellows. Send your child unto me, and save the others.”

The candle on the table in front of him fell over, the wax spattering onto the open book, the flame greedily licking its pages.

“Shit,” Keljarn cursed, tearing his cloak off and throwing it over the thin little book. After a few pats, the fire was out, and Keljarn lifted the cloak to see the book damaged, but not destroyed. Wax had left coagulating globs on the paper, but those were easily scratched off. The burn damage wasn’t fixable, but nobody would know if he just slid the book back onto the shelf.

Was it a warning? Or just a coincidence? Had this Night Mother creature heard his words, heard what, to her, was blasphemy? Had she decided to send him a warning for his threats? Keljarn dreaded the possibility, and hoped for it just the same.

Or it had just been a gust of wind, or an unconscious movement that had sent the candlestick falling over?

It didn’t matter what it was. Keljarn was certain of it. It had been them. Had to have been.

Hastily, he rearranged the books, put them back on the shelf and hurried back to Jorrvaskr to get a few hours of sleep. He’d have work to do tomorrow.

Athis nodded to him when he entered. Poor sap had guard duty tonight. After the killings, Jorrvaskr had to be guarded at all times. It was a sad necessity.

He silently crept downstairs, not to wake his fellow Companions, then went to his room and threw himself on the bed.

Sleep caught him almost instantly, but when he woke up, a few hours later, he felt just as tired as he had the night before. Still, he had plenty of energy. He’d tell the Companions all about his findings, and they’d look for this Brotherhood together. And they’d find them.

When he sat upright, however, he felt something fall from his chest and into his lap.

It was a folded note. How in Oblivion had that gotten there?

He unfolded it, surprised that his fingers were trembling. It merely said,

_Loredas the third, midnight, lakeview construction site_

_COME ALONE_

Loredas the third. That was tonight. He didn’t know who it was, and what he wanted, but he was willing to bet his boots that it’d be someone from this Brotherhood bunch of backstabbers.

Oh he’d come alone alright. But the meeting wouldn’t go the way this mystery person planned.

 


	37. Siari: A Darkened Mind

 

**SIARI**

**A Darkened Mind**

**Sanctuary**

 

Siari didn’t have to speak for the door to open. It knew who she was, and unlocked on its own. Another success to report, on both counts. She had the letter of credit firmly in her bag, and the dead mark firmly in her thoughts. Returning had been uneventful, but she doubted that reporting to Astrid would be similarly unexciting. But first, the Night Mother. Bossy Astrid could wait.

Cicero bowed to her as she entered the Night Mother’s chamber, and then left, so that Siari was alone in the room. Well, not _really_ alone. Standing in front of the sarcophagus, she stood looking up at it, but there was only silence.

Seemed the Night Mother had nothing to say. She didn’t let any doubt enter her mind though. The Night Mother _had_ spoken, she’d proven it to Cicero. Of course, that didn’t mean she’d always be talkative. Ah well, with a shrug, Siari turned to leave.

_Not very patient, are you? At my age, you need some time before you can speak, you know._

Siari promptly turned and snapped to attention. She doubted the Night Mother really did need time before she was able to speak, and also _didn’t_ doubt that the Night Mother would have kept silent until she left, and called her impatient no matter how long she’d waited.

_You’re worried about Astrid, aren’t you, my Listener?_

Again, Siari tried to send a reply with her thoughts, but it was pointless, so she could only stand in the cave with the faintly flickering torches and wait for the Night Mother’s words.

 _So am I_ , the Night Mother’s gentle voice spoke in her head. _She has trouble dealing with these changes. Be patient with her for now. I believe she may yet come around._

Patient, patient... Astrid was an adult, if things changed, she just had to accept and adapt.

_Your task is proceeding well. While you were elsewhere, another gear in the machine has turned. Two lovers, soon to be wed. Your shadow will pass over the wedding and make it a funeral. Mere days away. For now, present yourself to Astrid and do as she requests, my Listener._

Siari nodded.

_But be wary. Conflict rages inside her, and this makes me blind to her feelings and her doings. Much pain, anger and guilt in her. Affection also, but strange threads run through her heart._

Bah, Astrid just couldn’t deal with the fact that she no longer ran the place.

_Before you go, my Listener, I have a gift to bestow on you. Outside this Sanctuary is a dark pool, deeper than its size would make you suspect. Stand near the pool and my gift will find you. Treat it well, and it will do the same to you._

Ooh, a gift from the Night Mother. Whatever it was, Siari was certain it’d be exciting!

_Now, Listener, go and speak to the one who fancies herself your mother, but isn’t, and will never be._

Right, Astrid. She already dreaded the confrontation. She’d find something to get mad about as usual, and it’d end with Siari angrily turning on her heels and stomping outside.

Damn jealous control freak.

 _She_ was the Listener, not Astrid. The Night Mother had chosen _her_ , not Astrid. Why she kept pretending to be the boss mystified her. She didn’t feel guilty for the mean thoughts. Didn’t feel sorry. She didn’t know what ‘sorry’ meant.

Taking a breath and closing her eyes, she turned the handle on Astrid’s door, and knocked with the other.

“Come.” Astrid sounded tired and burdened. Good. This was the woman who’d taken her into the family, who’d treated her like a daughter, or a little sister, until the whole Listener thing had happened. Then she’d started being more and more resentful. Her mask had fallen off rather suddenly. And it wasn’t the literal mask Siari was thinking of.

Astrid looked up, and indeed, her weary face became even more irritated. “Oh, it’s you. Decided to stop by, did you?”

Ugh, Astrid. She didn’t stay away on jobs any longer than the others.

“Don’t give me that dirty look, Siari. Show some damn respect.”

It was hard to show respect to someone who kept taking out her own inadequacy on you, and it was unnecessary to show respect to someone who’d made herself the boss without being special in any way.

When Siari came closer, she saw Astrid’s face more clearly. Something pretty serious had happened to her. One of her eyes was ringed with black, and the cheek on the other side of her face was swollen and blue. Both her upper and lower lip were split, the clefts surrounded with bright red.

“It’s nothing,” Astrid said curtly. “Job gone wrong. Did you at least do as I told you?”

Siari felt her face harden even more. Astrid hadn’t ‘told’ her anything. Astrid wasn’t in a position to ‘tell’ her anything.

“Did you, or didn’t you? Are you going to answer, or are you just going to stand there being the mute you are?”

Furious inside, Siari pulled the letter of credit out of her bag and slapped it down on Astrid’s desk. Then she held up two fingers and drew one across her throat. Second job, mark dead.

Astrid scoffed, looking at the letter. “Of course you pulled it off without a hitch. Of course you did.” Her eyes went back to Siari. “Don’t let a few successes get to your head. Don’t start walking around with your head in the clouds and acting like everything you do is magic, because I won’t tolerate you treating the rest of us like dirt because you’re the Night Mother’s favourite.”

Siari opened her mouth to silently protest, but all she could do was move her mouth like a fish, without making any sound. Furiously, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down,

_not my fault if you can’t stomach no longer being able to push anyone around_

Astrid read the paper and went white with anger. “How _dare_ you suggest that I… that I… _I_ brought you into this family. _I_ treated you as my sister, made my home yours, made this family yours. _I_ trained you to be one of us, and this is the thanks I get?” She held up the paper. “ _This_ kind spiteful, ungrateful rottenness? Did I really make such a big mistake bringing you into this family?”

She was obviously playing the pity angle now, but Siari merely shrugged. Astrid was only reaping what she’d sowed. It was sad that they’d fallen out this way, but Siari wouldn’t lose sleep over this petty junk.

“I’ve got a job for you, Siari,” Astrid said, her lips rigid. “You’re going back to Riften. And you’re going back to the Thieves’ Guild. And you’re going to answer a few questions they have for you.”

Siari made a face to show how absurd that was. Why in Oblivion would she have to go to Riften and answer the Guild’s questions? What kind of horseshit was that?

“I am _telling_ you to go to Riften. The Night Mother may have pulled your name out of her hat, but _I_ still run the day-to-day of this family,” Astrid raised her voice. “And don’t you forget it. Now, unless the _Night Mother_ has pressing duties for you, you will do as I tell you. Back to Riften.”

Siari sighed and rolled her eyes. _Fine_. If the Night Mother didn’t object, sure, why the balls not. If Astrid was so eager to send her to Riften, why the balls not.

Astrid’s anger fell away, and Siari saw genuine sadness on her face. “Why are you doing this, Siari?”

Siari pulled up her shoulders. Why was she doing what?

“This,” Astrid said, gesticulating toward her. “Undermining me. Tearing our family apart.”

Siari snorted and rolled her eyes. Geez, Astrid, what drama. She wasn’t tearing anything apart, she wasn’t undermining anyone. She was just... she took a paper and wrote:

_just doing my duty_

Astrid read the paper and sighed. “I understand, I do. And I don’t want you to go against the Night Mother, but... Why is she making you go against me?”

Siari shook her head. She isn’t, Astrid.

Astrid rose and stepped towards Siari. “Siari, there’s something I really need you to know.”

Siari raised an eyebrow.

Without warning, Astrid put her arms around Siari and held her tight. Silently, she endured the discomfort of being so close to someone else.

“I want you to know that, no matter what happens,” Astrid said in her ear, “everything I do, I do for the good of this family.” Her arms unwrapped Siari, but her hands remained on her upper arms, and her eyes were fixed on Siari’s. “Even things you might not understand. Even things...” She struggled for words. “... that you might find unjust.”

Siari frowned, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with what Astrid had just said, and especially, the way she’d said it.

“And I also want you to know, and I want you to never forget this, that I care deeply about you. No matter what I do or say. Do you... do you understand?”

Siari nodded, the frown still on her face. She understood, but...

“And do you believe what I say?”

That was a different matter. Did she believe Astrid? The plea sounded sincere enough, but she’d known other people to sound sincere too, before. They hadn’t always been. Nowhere near. She looked Astrid in the eyes, trying to tell truth from lie, but she could only see true sadness and pain in Astrid’s face. She was telling the truth, Siari realized. She might have lied about other things, or been unable to face her own faults, but this, this was the truth. This was really how she felt.

A strange feeling took hold of Siari, one she didn’t know very well. Or hadn’t known for so long she’d forgotten it. Because despite that she considered Astrid to be a bossy, domineering and selfish control freak, she also realized that Astrid did, in fact, care deeply about her so-called family. And in turn, as strange as it was to acknowledge, Siari did care for her... somehow. She didn’t care for her attitude, or her difficulty, or her need to be in charge, but she did have strange emotions for Astrid as a person. It was the first time she found herself actually understanding that other people also had feelings, not just her. That they weren’t just scenery, or actors in the play where she was the only real person.

Startled by the feeling, she felt her breathing abruptly speed up and her stomach knot, and reflexively, she pushed the feeling deep down again. Because she didn’t want to face this. Didn’t want this feeling to manifest, because if it did, what other feelings might still surface? What other things might still happen in her mind? Even changes so strong that they’d make her think about all the things she’d done so far. Even shifts so influential that they’d force her to abandon her blissfully ignorant view on the world.

She didn’t need, and didn’t want things that would make her question herself.

To get Astrid away from her, she nodded at her, making it clear that she believed her, and when Astrid let go of her, the moment of intense doubt passed, making way for her usual, and comfortable state of emotional numbness to everything that wasn’t herself.

“Even though I don’t show it the right way,” Astrid concluded, “I care about you, and I love you. You are my family, although it might... not always seem like I think so.”

She acknowledged Astrid, and turned to leave.

As she pushed the door handle, Astrid said one last time, “Remember. No matter what happens.”

 


	38. Roë: Chasing Echoes

  **ROË**

**Chasing Echoes**

**Castle Volkihar**

 

“Come on, bathrobes, time to meet the parents.”

The Moth Priest was surprisingly docile, not exactly what Roë had expected. Sure, she and Serana had saved him, in a way, but the man was no idiot. He must know he’d gone from the frying pan into the fire. But still, he didn’t resist, didn’t try to escape, didn’t even complain. Even in the boat, with the ice cold wind lashing him through his flimsy linen robes, the man hadn’t griped or shown any discomfort. Roë doubted his resignation was so profound that he didn’t even express his disapproval at his capture.

Now they were on the steps of Castle Volkihar, and _still_ the robed man followed without a fuss, his hands stuck in his sleeves to protect them from the cold. It was the only response he gave to the violence the elements were pelting him with.

And now he was on the way to meet Serana’s father. A fate which couldn’t possibly be pleasing to look forward to. Still he met it stoically, his eyes cast down at the snow around his feet.

Roë had a few possibilities in mind why the Moth priest was so tame, but the most likely one was that, even though he knew that something terrible awaited him, the prospect of actually being allowed to read an Elder Scroll was enough to make him accept whatever it was that lay in store for him. When he’d outlived his usefulness, Roë didn’t think that he’d be dropped off at the shore with a knapsack, a handful of septims and a peck on the cheek.

Serana had him by the collar, but there was really no need. He followed on his own, even when Serana opened the doors to the castle with a simple, effortless push of her hand. She was regaining her power in leaps and bounds now, and despite what Serana herself claimed, Roë didn’t think she’d be any match for her friend if they ever had to face each other as enemies. Not that they ever would.

The voices in the hallway, as always, fell silent when Serana and her bodyguard (of sorts) entered. Modhna, the apparently loyal vassal, immediately leapt to her feet and rushed off to find her master. Roë was surprised she hadn’t learned how to bark yet. Serana still held the Moth Priest by the collar, but there was still no need, so she let him go.

Basking in the awe of the lesser Vampires, Serena stood statuesque and dignified, looking breathtaking. As if she didn’t always.

At length Lord Harkon made his appearance, striding into the great hall with a broad, beaming grin on his face, his arms outstretched. “My wonderful, beautiful daughter returns, along with her loyal bodyguard.”

Roë started to resent being referred to as a mere bodyguard all the time.

“I had expected none other to complete the task I set you all out to do.” He turned around, his cloak sweeping behind him, and addressed the Vampires sitting at the tables. “While you were strategizing, planning, studying maps and sending out scouts to find a Moth Priest, _my daughter_ took action, and now returns, her mission complete, while you lot haven’t even started.”

Both Roë and Serana chose not to comment on the fact that he gave them very private, very specific, and very helpful information while leaving the other Vampires to figure it out on their own. They also didn’t care to mention that technically, another Vampire had found the Moth Priest before them.

Lord Harkon was happy, and that was all that mattered. Because if Lord Harkon was happy, then Serana was happy. And if Serana was happy, well, then so was Roë. As happy as was possible for a walking cadaver.

“You have done well once again, my dear,” Harkon told his daughter. “You fill your old father’s heart with pride.”

“Good,” she simply replied. “That means we’ve earned a rest, doesn’t it?”

Harkon’s grin broadened even further. “Indeed you have, my dear. You and Lady Roë must be exhausted. Namasur will doubtless have a thrall or two ready for you. Your rooms have, naturally, been prepared.” Then he said to Roë, “Lady Roë, since you expressed the desire to keep your current quarters occupied for the time being, I have taken the liberty of instructing my staff to give your sleeping accommodations a much-needed bout of maintenance. I trust it’s to your liking?”

“Oh. Uh, thank you Lord Harkon,” Roë replied, trying to sound as formal as possible. “That’s very considerate of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said magnanimously. “Sleeping in a bed…” he ruminated. “To us, it seems a bit… nostalgic, perhaps? Somewhat… reluctant to close a chapter in one’s book of life, and unlife.” His expression darkened. “It would serve you well to let go of your past life, and embrace your new existence. Those who cling to a past life make things… difficult.”

“With all due respect, Lord Harkon, I... don’t think holding on to humanity is necessarily a bad thing. I… appreciate your concern, Lord Harkon”, Roë said carefully, “but for now I feel more comfortable sleeping in an actual bed.”

“I hope you will be able to move forward in due time, however?” Harkon asked.

Roë opened her mouth to speak, but Serana answered in her stead. “Though powerful, Roë is still young, father, let’s not forget that. Compared to our existences, hers is but a sigh, a mere droplet in a waterfall. In our venerable age, we sometimes forget how new things are to those we bring into the fold, don’t we father?”

Lord Harkon was silent for a moment, but then grinned again, and said, “Yes, of course. Still, I do hope you’ll take my advice to heart, Lady Roë. Wishing for a lost life will not avail you, as you are now, and will only cause pain.”

“I’ll… give your words the thought they deserve, my Lord,” Roë merely said, not wanting to lie, but hoping not to offend this almost godlike being in front of her. He probably said it out of concern, but still, not acknowledging his ‘caring advice’ might be dangerous.

“Good. I do hope so. Now, please, enjoy your well-deserved rest.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Thank you, lord Harkon.”

“And you, Moth Priest…” the grin on Harkon’s face went from winning to diabolical, and he put his hand on the Priest’s shoulder, clenching it so hard the man had to wince. “You and I are going to have a little heart-to-heart. I do hope threats of physical discomfort or the enacting thereof will not be necessary?”

“We both know I will read the Scroll for you anyway, whether I resist or not,” the Moth Priest said, first time he’d spoken since they’d ‘liberated’ him from the other Vampires. “I might as well do it freely, instead of first suffering the torments of Oblivion, and then reading it to you.”

“Good man,” Harkon growled at him, shaking his shoulder. “Knowing one’s own weaknesses is the first sign of true wisdom, is it not?”

“Spare me the false flattery, _Lord_ Harkon.”

“You wound me, Priest. Modhna!”

The so-loyal-it-was-slightly-creepy Vampire stepped forward with a short bow.

“I will escort the Priest to our library, where he can work in peace.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Arrange for some… oh, I don’t know, a selection of quality human food, yes?”

Another short bow. “At once, my Lord.”

Roë felt Serana tug her sleeve. “Come on. This’ll take a year anyway. Let’s get some snacks.”

They walked to the dungeons, where Namasur kept his thralls. When they were out of earshot, Roë asked, “Why did you cut me off when I answered your father?”

Serana looked at her as if she thought Roë had just asked the stupidest question ever. “Because you were about to make your existence here very difficult, maybe?”

Roë blew. “What are you talking about? Your father was just trying to express his concern.”

“Concern?” Serana asked incredulously. “Roë. My dear, sweet Roë. My father’s been around for thousands of years. Not only is he absolutely _not_ concerned about anyone but himself, but after so many years, he rarely communicates directly. He rarely says things flat-out. It’s always what’s underneath the words.”

Roë stopped and blinked. “Serana, what do you mean?”

Her friend put her hands in her sides and looked at her like she was being obtuse. “Roë. Saying you’ll make things difficult? Expressing his ‘hope’ that you’ll move on? Saying it’d cause you pain to cling to life? That wasn’t concern. He didn’t mean you’ll make it difficult for yourself. He meant you’d make it difficult for _him_. And he didn’t mean you’d cause yourself pain, he meant _he_ would. That was a _threat_ , Roë.”

“What, as in…?”

“As in, let go of all your humanity or else.”

“Why would he want me to – ”

“Because humans have _emotions_. They have wishes, dreams, hopes. They have love, joy, ambition. Vampires like him, who have grown so old? They no longer have any of that. All they have is power, and lust for more power. Vampires who long for human emotions, who hold on to their humanity are the very things he despises, because he thinks that Vampires who cling to life will do anything to feel a semblance to it, including betraying him and our kind. Any Vampire who doesn’t mirror himself to him is a liability at best.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Roë blurted out.

“Is it?” Serana asked, her hands in her sides. She looked casual, but Roë knew that look concealed something else. “Tell me, Roë. What wouldn’t _you_ do to return to life? To what lengths wouldn’t _you_ go?”

Roë had never seen her friend like this. The look in her eyes was not suspicion. It was the look of someone who not only considered her capable of betrayal, but who had already determined their guilt before it had even happened. “I… I’d….”

“You’d certainly murder every single Vampire here with your bare hands if you had to. Including my father. Including _me_.”

“Serana, I’d never – ”

“Don’t try to deny it,” Serana said, still sounding like she was talking about the weather, but her eyes told different. “Fledglings like you, you’d do anything, destroy anyone, just to get a brief taste of life again.” The condemnation went out of her eyes somewhat. “And it’s not even your fault, you know? You’re just… young and stupid. And you’re – “”

“Serana,” Roë interrupted her, shaken by her friend’s sudden accusations, no matter how casually they were made. “I would never, _ever_ , do anything to hurt you. I don’t care what else you suspect I’d do, but never that. I… I promise.” It was an easy vow to make, she realized to her sadness. The opportunity would never present itself anyway.

Her words did get through to Serana, however, and she backed down. “Never say never, Roë. I’d rather you realized the temptation is real, or would be real, than to assume you’d never ever betray me for any reason whatsoever.”

“Serana. Stop talking like this. It’s moot anyway, right?”

“Right.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Roë, my father makes me so moody sometimes.”

“It’s alright,” Roë said quietly. “Fathers sometimes do that.” It was best to put it behind them, so she asked, “So, your father told us to see Namasur?”

“Yes,” Serana remembered, instantly back to her old, bubbly self. “Yes, we can use a little boost. Think you’re ready for some live prey?”

Roë felt her face pull into an insecure mask. “I… don’t know. After what happened – ”

“True, true,” Serana interrupted her. “But you’ll have to learn sometime. Better in a controlled environment, no?”

“I… suppose?”

Serana look away, saying more to herself than to Roë, “I should have started you off with that. Was careless of me to just throw you in the deep end.”

“Well, it’s no disaster, is it?”

Serana turned back to her, jerked from her thoughts. “That you overfed once? No, not on its own. Just… you know, not too often.”

“Well… suppose it’s best to practice then, right?”

With a nod, Serana said, “Let’s go. Namasur usually just drains the prisoners and then brings the blood up, bottled, but we might as well have a drink from the source now that we have the chance. It’s… not really good manners, but hey,” she winked at Roë, “we _are_ nobility.”

Namasur stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face becoming embarrassed when he saw Serana and Roë. Well, probably just Serana. “Dear Ladies, I… hadn’t expected you to make a trip to the dungeon!”

The dungeon was just that, a sort of warden’s office in front, and then, down a few steps, a corridor with prison bars on either side, prisoners of all races and genders standing behind those bars, looking at the visitors with vacant eyes. The place stank incredibly. Straw pallets were the only furniture in the cells, apart from a slop bucket, and judging from the shit caked on the insides of some of the prisoners’ legs, they weren’t even lucid enough to use it. These people were little more than walking corpses.

“I must apologize for the foulness of the prisoners,” Namasur immediately rushed to say. “Had I known your Ladyships were coming, I would have cleaned them up. But you can understand how cleaning the filth that these repulsive creatures expel can be a fulltime job.”

“Why are they…” Roë asked, having the utmost difficulty to find her words, “… so dazed? Why aren’t they… at least cleaned up?”

“Once more, Lady Roë,” Namasur began again, “My sincerest apologies. I would have cleaned them if I’d known you were coming. I understand that you should not deign to feed from creatures so repulsive, but alas, there are only so many hours in the night and – ”

“That’s not what I mean,” Roë interrupted him, hearing her voice grow louder. “How can you… neglect these people this way?”

Namasur stood utterly transfixed in surprise. “But… but Lady Roë, they’re just…”

“Just what?” Roë dared him. “Humans? Animals? Cattle?”

“Roë, take it easy,” Serana said, trying to calm her down.

But every time Roë looked at the prisoners, she became more upset. Most were in a state of pure walking death, and those that weren’t, were barely aware of their surroundings, occasionally moaning quietly. They all showed signs of serious physical abuse, as well as neglect, but Roë did remark that they all seemed well-fed and hydrated, and mostly free from disease aside from the occasional sore or infected wound . But she harboured no illusions, it was only done to make the blood safe and good-tasting. The Vampire who drank the bottled blood in the atrium didn’t care how much filth had clung to his donor. These were _people_. Some were even _children_. “Where do you even get these people? Do you kidnap them? And don’t even think about lying to me that they’re volunteers!”

“We… we abduct them from a young age,” Namasur said, still taken aback, holding his palms out in front of him to defend against Roë’s wrath.

“You… you _what_?” Roë asked, barely containing her anger.

“Roë,” Serana tried again. “I agree that Namasur is _somewhat neglectful in his duties_ ,” she shot him an angry look, “but we shouldn’t be naïve either. The blood has to come from somewhere.”

“But… Serana!” Roë protested. “From a young age! That means… most of these people have never even seen the outside world!” She looked again at the prisoners, and it only strengthened her outrage. “Look at them, Serana! How hard can it be to treat these people somewhat humanely?”

“Roë, let’s talk about this in private. We – ”

“ _No_ , Serana, I don’t _want_ to talk about this in private, we – ”

She felt Serana grab her elbow, and a strange feeling came over her, as if she suddenly _wanted_ to comply, even if she didn’t. “Roë. In. Private.”

As Roë felt her will weaken and followed her friend, Serana jabbed a finger at Namasur. “Namasur, you’re a loyal vassal of Lord Harkon, and I praise you for it. But this incident should not reach his ears, is that clear?”

“I… perfectly, Lady Serana,” Namasur said meekly, bowing his head.

“Come on, Roë.”

She followed, even though she wanted to stay and give Namasur several more pieces of her mind, up the stairs and back to the dead-end corridor they’d already used to connive before.

“Roë,” Serana said, looking like she was trying really hard not to lose patience. “I understand how this was painful to watch. And I agree that while we are Vampires, we should still treat our thralls more humanely than this. But what you did just now – ”

“You _just_ said you agreed!” Roë snapped, the strange sensation of weakened will now gone.

“ _Listen_ to me,” Serana bit back. “If my father hears about this, what do you think he’ll conclude? Hm?” When Roë didn’t answer right away, she continued, “He’ll decide that you’re too human. Too attached to life, to humanity. And he’ll take steps to rectify that. By punishing your humanity out of you. _If_ you’re lucky.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Roë said quietly, looking away. “Your father gave me all this power, it means he – ”

“Sees potential in you, yes. And he does, I do too. But where I see potential in you as an ally, as a confidante, as an equal, he sees something else. You’re not an ally to him, not family, not nobility, much as he loves to say you are. He’ll give you power as long as you’re not a threat to him. Give you praise as long as you’re useful. But the moment he considers you dangerous, or treacherous, or, as is the danger here, unreliable, then… well, he won’t hesitate for even a second. He feels no genuine affection for you, Roë. It’s all chess to him, and you’re nothing but a pawn.”

“So you say,” Roë said back. “But maybe he – ”

“Roë. People like him? They don’t make friends. They don’t care about things like morals or ethics. I’m his daughter, so that’s different, but please, _please_ understand that you shouldn’t antagonize him. I don’t want him to decide you’re a liability. Because whatever it is that would happen to you then, it… wouldn’t be pretty.”

Roë knew Serana was right, much as it hurt her to admit. Harkon had given her this power because it had served his plans to do so, no more. But still… She couldn’t just leave these people there. “What about those prisoners, Serana? I don’t care how old you are or how little you think of humans, this kind of thing is inexcusable.”

Serana looked away, thinking. “It is. Just because we’re monsters, doesn’t mean we should act the part. But let _me_ take the matter up with my father. I’ll… come up with some idiocy about how the blood will taste better if we clean and air the prisoners regularly. It’s not much, but it’s all I dare.”

Roë nodded, knowing she’d have to be satisfied with so little. “Thanks. Seeing these poor people get treated so horribly, it just…”

“Yes, well, don’t ever let my father hear you say that.”

“Mm.”

Serana looked back and the stairs and said, “I told Namasur to keep this quiet, but you can bet he’s going to tattle as soon as he has the opportunity. So you’re already on thin ice, Roë. I’ll probably be able to make the case that you’re young, and remind him that you’re… well, an investment. Of sorts. But I can’t keep doing that forever.”

Modhna had appeared in the doorway. “Your Ladyships, Lord Harkon requires all Vampires’ presence in the great hall. The Moth Priest is ready to read out the scroll.”

Serana blinked. “Already? That was fast.”

With a thin smile, Modhna merely commented, “Lady Serana, your father’s charisma and personable nature can speed up any endeavour.”

“It seems even after all this time, I can still underestimate him,” Serana said in feigned cheer.

The rejoined the other Vampires in the great hall, with its dark wooden tables splattered with blood, its golden candelabras and dark red stained glass windows. On the balcony, overlooking the great hall, stood Lord Harkon with his ‘willing’ prisoner, the bald, bearded Moth Priest in his linen robes. Harkon held the Elder Scroll firmly in his hand. Looking around, Roë recognized Garen Marethi, who nodded at her in greeting, Hestla the armourer, her face and apron still black with soot, Fura, whose task at the Castle seemed to be security, judging by the rather heavy mace she carried at all times and the patrols she made in and around the building, and others she knew but not by name.

“My loyal subjects,” Harkon addressed the Vampires. Roë’s eyes briefly went to Orthjolf and Vingalmo, each in his respective corner, looking pensive. “The Elder Scroll and the Moth Priest are finally found, thanks to my wonderful daughter, and our good friend, Dexion Evicus,” he clapped the Moth Priest on the shoulder, “will read the Elder Scroll out to us. Moth Priest, commence.”

The Moth Priest took the Elder Scroll from Harkon, took a moment to close his eyes and take a breath (how Roë envied him), and unrolled the Scroll.

If the occupants of Castle Volkihar still breathed, they would be holding their breaths now, to a one. An Elder Scroll was being read… this hadn’t happened in, what, centuries? The hall was so quiet one could hear a drop of blood hit the ground.

The Moth Priest stood motionless, only his eyes moving, and then he threw back his head, holding the Scroll out in front of him.

“I see… a vision before me!” he exclaimed. “An image of… of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel’s Bow!”

Right below the balcony, Modhna stood, transcribing the Moth Priest’s reading word for word.

“Now… now a voice whispers,” Evicus called out. “Saying, ‘among the night’s children, a dread Lord will rise’…”

Harkon became even more attentive at the mention of what was most likely his person.

“In an age of strife,” the Moth Priest went on, his eyes no longer on the Scroll, but fixed on the ceiling. “When dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light, and the light and day will be as one. The voice… the voice fades and the words begin to shimmer and distort.”

Harkon frowned with concern, but didn’t intervene.

“But wait, there is more here! The secret of the Bow’s power is written elsewhere. There is… I believe there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other Scrolls.” Brief silence. “Yes… Yes I see them now! One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood.”

His arms lowered the Elder Scroll and his gaze too, came down. “My vision darkens, and I see no more. To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two Scrolls.”

Harkon took the Scroll back from the Priest, and when Roë saw the man’s arms feeling around, his eyes wide open but vacant, she realized it hadn’t been his figurative vision darkening, but his literal one.

“He’s… gone blind?” Roë whispered to Serana.

Serana merely nodded. “The Scrolls weren’t really meant for any of us to read, mortal or Vampire. Most go blind instantly if they try, or go insane if they manage to read a single word. There’s even stories of people being obliterated by a Scroll. These Moth Priests supposedly spend their lives just learning how to read them, and even they go blind if they do it too often. Though this guy…” she looked at the Priest on the balcony, cocking her head, “… seems to be a bit of a pushover.”

“Lord Harkon,” the Moth Priest called, his voice carrying an edge of panic. “I was not suitably prepared. I was too hasty. But I know of a way to read the other Scrolls. A ritual, a – ”

“Quiet, Priest,” Harkon threatened. “There’s no need to announce this to the entire assembly. Modhna!”

“Yes, Lord Harkon?”

“Take the Priest and the Scroll .back to the library. No one speaks to him until I do. _No one_ , not even you.”

“Certainly, Lord Harkon.”

“Fura!”

The young-looking Vampire jerked to attention at the calling of her name. “Yes, Lord?”

“I want you and the two death hounds at the door to the library at all times. Anyone asks to be let in, you report it to me. Anyone makes an attempt to get by you, you and the hounds tear them limb from limb, understood?”

The Vampire struck her chest with her fist. “As you command.”

“Daughter?”

With considerably less deference and considerably less enthusiasm, Serana said, “Yes, father?”

“I would speak with you and the Lady Roë.”

Perhaps it was Roë’s imagination, but when he mentioned her by title, she could have sworn she heard some derision in the word ‘Lady’.

Serana only sighed. “Of course you do.” When they approached the balcony, Serana told Roë out of the corner of her mouth, “Figures we’re the ones jumping through the hoops again.”

“Daughter, you’ve heard the Moth Priest,” Harkon announced gravely as he led his daughter and her ‘bodyguard’ back to his throne room. “We require two more Elder Scrolls.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” Serana said sarcastically.

“Indeed. Though, finding them may be considerably easier than you would suspect. I have reliable leads on both of them.” He chuckled, “Helps when you’ve had a thousand years to prepare.”

“I assume you want us to follow up on them?” Serana said, sounding bored, and already knowing the answer.

Harkon stopped walking. “Daughter, you’re the only one I can trust with this. All these others, they’d betray me as soon as they found a way. But not you. You’re the only one I can rely on.”

Serana sighed again. He was clearly laying on the guilt as heavily as he dared. “Fine. So where do we go?”

He looked around to make sure no one had followed. “One of the Elder Scrolls is safe, to a degree, in the bowels of a long-forgotten Dwemer ruin. The other, I suspect,” he looked away and his face became bitter, “lies with your traitor mother.”

Roë couldn’t help but ask, “’Lies’, as in, she has it, or ‘lies’, as in, it’s entombed with her?”

“Sadly,” Harkon said, bitterness sounding through in his voice. Roë realized this may be the first and only time he displayed genuine emotion. “Sadly, Serana’s mother is most likely undead and well, but she has stolen the Elder Scroll I had long ago obtained, and then disappeared. Find my traitor wife, and you will find the Scroll.”

“Once again it falls to us, I see,” Serana sighed. “After being lost for centuries, I return only to be sent away time and again. It’s a strange thing, a father’s love.”

Roë began to suspect that Harkon’s manipulative and manoeuvring nature did not stop at family members, like Serana thought, at all. And surely Serana herself must have an idea too.

“We’ll do as you ask, father,” Serana said wearily, raising her hand in resignation. “But we need a meal, and rest, first. I’m not going anywhere without proper rest, and that means a few days. And neither is Roë.”

Harkon’s face very briefly darkened at the defiance, but then his grin returned and he said, “Of course, my daughter. I’ve waited centuries to fulfil the prophecy. Surely I can wait a few days more.”

“Good. Come on, Roë.”

As they walked to their rooms, Serana just shook her head and said, “More fetching to do. You’d almost think my father doesn’t want me here.”

“I’m sure he really does think you’re the only one he can trust,” Roë said, aware that she was playing the daedra’s advocate.

“And whose fault is that?” Serana asked. “If you don’t trust anyone around you, then maybe it means there’s a reason for their disloyalty.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Actually.”

Eager to change the subject, Roë asked, “So uh, what do you want to do with your time off?”

Serana took her by the sleeve again and led her to their usual dead-end corridor, dark and out of sight. “Actually, I don’t want any time off. Not really. I want to do some digging.”

“Digging?”

She leaned in even closer. Roë could feel her breath on her cheek. Well, not her breath. Just the air she expelled when she spoke. “My father’s up to something. He’s just too eager, too fixated on this whole prophecy thing. I don’t know exactly what he’s got planned, I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a reason he’s so secretive. Too obsessed with the prophecy.”

“What kind of reason would there be?”

She looked away, gnawing at her lip. “I don’t know. But I do know one thing.”

When she didn’t continue, Roë asked, “… yes?”

“I need to talk to my mother.”

“Well that’s good,” Roë said with a shrug, “because we’re going there anyway.”

“Yes, but…” she looked back down the corridor again, then whispered, so exaggeratedly it was almost comical, “… we’ll be doing it without my father knowing.”

“Really? I mean, isn’t that – ”

“Dangerous? Disloyal? Yeah. But I need to do this. I need to talk to my mother, because my father can call her a traitor all he wants, but… well, that’s his take on things. Might not necessarily be the truth. You’re with me, right?”

Of course she was. How could she not. “Yes. I’m with you. But I really hope you know what you’re doing.”

She nodded. “So do I. And thank you. For now, we need a rest though. Sun’s almost up. No point burning our pretty skins.”

She was right. Dawn was lighting up the horizon, and much as she’d loce to stay and watch the sun come up, she couldn’t. Not ever.

Only a single candle lit the room, but when Roë used it to light the other lanterns, she noticed that indeed, Harkon had had her room taken care of. Where before, it was a dusty, empty room with only cobwebs and a bed, now it was a well-furnished and cleaned bedroom with night stands, freshly made bedding, and a table and chair for writing or working. It looked a lot better, but it was of little comfort, since all she wanted to do was sleep in a bed at night and walk around during the day. But the day was no longer for her. The rest of her existence was candles, lanterns, and torches. No real light, just varying degrees of gloom.

With these thoughts still stabbing at her dead heart, she fell on her bed and off existence.

 

* * *

 

No Serana wake-up service this time, she awoke on her own just after nightfall. With a sigh, she swung her legs out of bed and sat up. Candles. Lanterns. Nu sun flooding in through the shutters. Not ever.

She stood up and looked down at her body. Naked, pale, cold and dead. She still slept under the blankets although they had no heat to retain. Another former human habit she couldn’t shake. Harkon would disapprove.

She realized it was only a matter of time before he saw her as a danger and removed her. Serana was right, this man didn’t make friends, didn’t uphold loyalty. Perhaps if Serana could be convinced to stand up against her father… after all, she was already having her own suspicions so it probably wouldn’t be so difficult to convince her to either abscond, or confront her father. Roë didn’t want to flee the castle on her own, and confronting Harkon without Serana would be sheer suicide – something she would welcome, but the power of her blood would not allow it.

She was starving, now that she thought of her blood. Strangely, the empathy she’d had for the prisoners had shrunk, making way for an oppressive, domineering feeling of hunger. She’d gladly grab the shit-caked, lifeless thralls, feel the poor wretches kick and struggle in her arms, and suck them dry until there was only skin and bones to feed to the hounds.

Serana announced her presence by a knock on the door, and Roë got dressed and let her in.

“Hungry?”

“Desperately,” was all Roë could say.

“Brought you something!” She held two vials of still-warm blood. “Freshly drained.”

She didn’t want any blood from a vial. She needed something better. “No vials. I want to feel a living person’s blood run down my chin.” She realized the hunger made her say strange things, but she couldn’t help herself. “Feel warm blood run down my body.” Her fangs felt sharp in her mouth, she was so aware of them they almost hurt.

“Whoa,” Serana stopped her, looking a mix between cheerful and concerned. “If you’re talking like that, you _definitely_ need a vial before we practice on a living person. In fact, take both of them.”

“I don’t want – ”

“Stop fussing, take them. Seriously.” Laughing like a parent would laugh at a child that doesn’t know what it’s doing, she said, “And stop baring your teeth at me, you animal.”

She wasn’t even aware her lips were pulled back from her teeth. And as much as the hunger tried to tell her otherwise, she knew Serana was right. She’d have to drink from a vial or two to calm the worst of it before setting her fangs into a live victim. Still, she longed to storm to the dungeons right now and burst them all like the blood sacks they were.

Serana held the vial out to her. “Stop fantasizing. Drink.”

Overcoming the hunger’s clawing call, she uncorked the vials and threw her head back, letting the lukewarm, thick metallic liquid slide down her throat. The revulsion she’d had before was now completely gone, and the stuff went down in greedy gulps. She wasn’t even aware that she’d uncorked the second until she’d drained it too.

The hunger quieted somewhat, and she found herself thinking more or less straight again. And unable to understand what had gotten into her to see the prisoners only as pumping, pulsating blood sacks. It wasn’t gone completely though, and the hunger still growled in her stomach, and her entire body.

“Come on,” Serana said. “Let’s give it another go. I talked to my father about the prisoners, and I got him to see your point of view. Well, ours. Namasur should have had instructions to clean and air the prisoners now. Let’s just hope he kept his trap shut. He’ll blab eventually, but better later than sooner.”

“M-hm.” Her concern for the prisoners returned, Roë hoped Serana’s father had indeed given instructions to treat the captives more humanely. Why he’d done it didn’t matter. As long as it got done. And hey, maybe the blood actually did taste better?

“Your Ladyships,” Namasur once again greeted them as they entered the dungeons, but he was far more humble this time. Harkon must have given him very… _clear_ instructions. “The prisoners are all cleaned, and we are in the process of constructing an outside kennel – ” He interrupted himself when he saw Roë’s glare. “… I mean, _holding_ _cell_ for them, so they can spend time outside. They have been given only enough of Garen’s medicine to keep them from getting too violent, and we’ll be providing them with a few books as a distraction during their… well. Their time here.”

“Good,” Serana merely said.

Roë had no choice but to be satisfied. It wasn’t much, but it was something. These people might still be prisoners, but at least they got cared for a bit better.

“This does mean that we’ll have to keep them chained by one ankle instead of letting them roam free in their cells. Hestla is already at work. The… chains will have an acceptable length to allow mobility but not escape.”

It was a necessary evil. Better to spend one’s prisoner life chained than to do it in a mindless trance, smeared with one’s own bodily waste. At least now they’d be lucid enough to actually use the shit bucket. Most were still in trance, but some faces bore vague expressions of confusion, and some even more.

“You’ve done well, Namasur. Thank you. We realize this must mean extra work for you, but quality never comes without effort, does it?”

Namasur had no choice but to wring his hands in embarrassment and say, “Indeed it does not, my Lady.”

“Good. Some privacy please, Namasur?”

He gave a short bow. “Of course, Lady Serana.” With that, he left the room.

“Roë, the honour is yours.” Serana swept her hand across the cells. “Choose any one you like. But remember what we said.”

Roë nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Are you…” a young boy asked, approaching the bars, “… the one who made them stop giving us the potions?”

“Uh…” Insecurely, Roë looked back at Serana, who nodded. “Yes. Yes I am. We are.”

“It’s like… waking up from a dream.” He looked like a Nord boy, around twelve, his short blond hair standing in all directions. His blue eyes were bloodshot, but clear, much clearer than the eyes of any of the prisoners had been the night before. “It’s like…” he looked at his hands, turning them over and studying them. “… like I was asleep, but also awake. And the sleep was quiet, even though I knew and saw that horrible things were happening around me.”

Roë kneeled by the boy. “Well, you’re awake now. I know you’re in a cell right now, but I’ll try to make things better for you. It’s going to take time.”

“Are you… a Vampire?”

It stung Roë to admit, “Yes. I am. But I still remember what it was like to be human.”

“Your eyes are… beautiful and terrifying at the same time.” Roë knew exactly what he meant. The boy looked at his hands again and said, “The reality is scarier than the dream, but at least it’s real. I’m in the real world.”

She nodded. “That’s right. And you’ll be able to go outside every day, even if it is in a cell.”

The boy was pushed aside and Roë found herself looking at the groin of a half-Orc woman. “Tell them to give us the serum again,” she hissed, baring her tusks as Roë stood up to face her. “Give it to us. Why’d you make it stop? At least when we had the potion, we didn’t know how miserable we were.”

“You were walking dead,” Roë said back. “Anything would be better than walking around like a… like a mindless atronach.”

The half-Orc banged her fist against the bars. “ _You_ don’t get to decide what’s best for us!”

“You were vegetables!” Roë shouted at her. “You spent your lives as mindless thralls, pissing and shitting yourselves where you stood!”

“But at least we didn’t feel the pain and the hunger and the insanity!” the woman cried back. “Our minds were somewhere else, _away_ from this misery!”

“You’d actually _want_ to be mindless?” Roë asked.

“Compared to this? Yes I would!”

“This conversation’s going nowhere,” Serana interrupted in a bored voice. “You people are coming back to your senses, deal with it. We’ve done this to give you at least a little bit of freedom, but if you don’t want it, that’s your problem.”

The half-Orc clawed through the bars at Serana. “You disgusting bloodsucker – ”

“And this is the way it’s going to be, whether you like it or not,” Serana said, unperturbed and unimpressed. “You know why? Because _you’re_ the prisoners and _we’re_ your captors. We think it’s better for you this way, and that’s the end of it.”

The half-Orc kept clawing, spittle flying from her lips. “If I ever get out of here, I’m going to – ”

“Roë. Calm her down.”

“Uh…”

“Go on.” Serana nudged her head at the cells. “You know how. Go in and do it. But remember…”

Roë nodded. “No killing.”

“That’s it, elf-corpse,” the Orc woman growled, balling her hands into fists. Human or not, prisoner or not, she had some wicked claws. Then again, what did Roë care. She’d just regenerate everything the Orc could do to her. “Come in and I’ll rip your rotting guts right out of your frail little body.”

The prisoner stood glaring at her, hunched over, droplets of sweat on the shaved sides of her head. More sweat stood beaded on the pale greenish skin of her forehead. Her nose was wrinkled and her tusks bared, smaller than those of a true Orsimer, but still very present. And though prison life had taken its toll on all of the living ones held captive, this one seemed to have been relatively new to the cage, the hard muscles on her bare belly still clearly visible, and her arms and shoulders still very strong-looking. She must have been a great warrior before ending up here.

Roë inserted the key in the door, and without taking her eyes off the prisoner, she turned the key and opened the door. She was incredibly nervous, but the half-Orc couldn’t possibly have any idea what the real reason for that was.

“Please don’t hurt her,” the boy pleaded. “She tried to protect me when your kind took me. She’s a kind person.”

“Shh, kid,” Serana said calmly. “She won’t feel a thing.”

The half-orc threw a punch at Roë, but between her own malnourishment and Roë’s razor-sharp reflexes and inhuman agility, she didn’t stand a chance. Roë grabbed the prisoner’s wrist, gave it a hard pull and jerked the woman’s back against her chest. Before the prisoner could even try to struggle free, she’d bared her fangs and sunk her teeth into the throat of her prey.

Red, warm blood pulsated into her mouth, hot and alive, bursting with power. She pulled the prisoner closer and drank, this prey’s blood tasting far more strongly of metal from the Orcish lineage. The prisoner no longer struggled, hanging limp in her arms, breathing heavy. As she drank, she felt the Orsimer’s fingers go through her hair and grab onto it, but their intent was not to hurt.

“Easy, Roë,” she heard from far away, but her world had shrunk to only herself and her prey, and their relationship of pure mutual pleasure.

The grip of the fingers on her hair began weakening. She knew she had to stop, but all she wanted was to drain her dry, to have her spend her last moments in pure ecstasy, and giving that same ecstasy to her mistress.

“Roë, enough. You’re drinking too much again. Stop.”

Serana wouldn’t intervene. Roë knew she wouldn’t, even though she hoped for it, in a way. Because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop in time. It just felt too good, too intimate, too… _alive_. And just one more time didn’t matter, did it? She’d be able to stop next time. Maybe if she just let her go one more time, just one more time, that wouldn’t be a catastrophe would it? She’d make up for it next time. She’d stop then. Just not now. She’d let it happen now, and stop next time. Next time.

She wrapped her hands around the warm, strong half-Orc, feeling the hard, warm muscles beneath her fingers, and held her tight as the fingers slowly letting go of her hair. She heard her prey’s breath become slower and more shallow.

_She tried to protect me when your kind took me. She’s a kind person._

What was she doing? She had to stop, it had to be _now_! Summoning all her willpower, she pulled her fangs free of the half-dead prisoner and letting out a long, breathless wheeze of effort, she threw her head back, her mouth still open, and the prisoner slumped to the ground, out of her arms.

Serana promptly pushed Roë out of the way and kneeled by the prisoner, placing a hand on her chest. The young boy fearlessly kneeled by the half-Orc woman too.

“I… think she’s going to live,” she said, letting out a breath of relief. “That was…” she looked up at Roë, “… _just_ in time.”

Roë’s knees gave out and she fell on her ass, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’d almost… almost…”

“Yes, but you didn’t,” Serana said, still kneeled behind the prisoner and looking back at Roë. “That’s what matters. You stopped at the critical moment.”

“I… still shouldn’t have…”

“Let it go,” Serana said. “Her heart’s still beating, and I can feel enough blood in her. Just barely. She would have died if you’d kept it up for a bit longer, but you didn’t.”

“It’s… just so hard not to…”

“I know. But it’ll get better. You’ll manage.” Serana stood up, leaving the only-barely-conscious prisoner to the cares of the young Nord boy. “Come on, we shouldn’t stay here.” She held out her hand.

Still feeling a mix of shock and relief banging her back and forth, Roë extended her bloody hand towards Serana’s and let herself be pulled up. With a giggle, Serana said, “Hold on, you’ve still got some…” with her finger, she scooped a drop of blood off Roë’s chin and pushed it into her mouth. “… there.”

They left the cell and Serana closed the door. “Boy,” she said with a sigh of relief. “That was close. Almost thought you’d let it happen again. Good job, Roë.”

Roë stood looking at the half-Orc, who was slowly coming back to her senses, muttering and moaning with her eyes only opened to slits. Her thoughts went back to Acrus, the poor guy she’d drained to death in the College of Winterhold, and all she could say was, “I already let it happen once too many. I don’t deserve a ‘good job’.”

“She had a lot of fight in her,” Serana said, ignoring Roë’s regrets. “Maybe we should consider turning her.”

“Don’t,” Roë said abruptly. “She’s earned the right not to be. They all have.” The hunger had made her almost drunk, but now that it was sated, she felt sober and clear-thinking again.

“Well, all’s well that ends well,” Serana concluded. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

They ignored Namasur’s cheerful remark of, “Oh, someone was _hungry_ ,” as they left the dungeon. Once they were out of earshot, Serana told Roë more about her plan.

“So listen. I want to hear from my mother what happened to me, before my father has a chance to get a hold of her. Now, since she’s been gone for years and years, I can’t possibly imagine a place where my father hasn’t yet looked for her. You know, he’s had all this time to find her, and all.”

“Maybe she’s sealed away, like you were?” Roë ventured.

“Mm-m,” Serana disagree with a shake of her head. “I was sealed… against my will, I think. No, I think it was without my _knowing_. My mother fled of her own accord. She’d never seal herself away like I have, not willingly.”

“Then there must be another place.”

“Mm.”

“Nothing you can remember from your childhood? Secret safe houses? Underground vaults?”

Serana thought long and hard. “Mmmmno.”

“No other clans she could have found refuge in?”

“Aedra forbid,” Serana said with a grin, still concentrated.

Trying to shake the shock and guilt of the feeding off her, Roë said cheerfully, “Hey, you know what would be funny? I read a story once, was really long tale, and I mean _really_ long, about a person who’d lost his memory and tried to find who he was, and at the end of the story, after he’d roamed across other worlds, other planes of existence, even other states of being, after an incredibly long journey to the edges of reality and back, it turned out the place he was looking for was the place he first started out in, and he’d have known if only one of his friends had simply told him. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the same thing? Imagine if your mother’s been in this castle all along. How silly would that make Harkon feel?”

Serana chuckled. “Pretty silly, definitely. But yeah, I doubt it’ll be that…” her face froze. “Actually…” She motioned for Roë to be perfectly still while she made a concentrated face, trying to remember something. Then realization dawned on her features, and her eyes of blazing beauty settled on Roë.

“Actually… she said quietly. “I think I know where she is. Shit in my boots, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner!”

“What, what?”

Excitement broke out on Serana’s face, and she told Roë, “My mother used to tend this uh, this secret garden in the courtyard of the castle. My father hated the place, couldn’t stand it, because it was too peaceful. If there’s one place left where my father hasn’t looked, it’s there.”

Roë snorted. “What, she’s been hiding between the flowers for years and years?”

“Tch, _no_. But I know there was a secret entrance in the courtyard. A way to her lab. She told my father about it, _long_ ago, but he probably didn’t even listen, and even if he has, I bet he’s forgotten about it after all these years.”

Roë grinned. “But you haven’t.”

With a grin of her own, Serana said, “I sure haven’t.”

“So we’re off to that garden?”

Serana nodded. “M-hm. We’ve got to do it in secret though. If my father finds out about the garden, he’ll put two and two together. Or wring the information out of us.” She let out a humourless chuckle. “Well. Out of you.”

“Well thanks.”

“Never fear though,” Serana told her enthusiastically. “There’s a way to the garden that doesn’t go through the castle. There’s an inlet on the other side of the island, leads to an old escape tunnel. It’s a bit of a hike, but nothing too dangerous. Come on.”

Next to the bridge that led to the castle, was a small, almost invisible trail between the jagged rocks, that led them around the island. They made their way to the other side, unable to converse over the thundering of the waves that crashed into the rock face, only a metre or two below them. It was a treacherous path, but not irresponsibly dangerous, and even in the dark, the trail was visible enough between the wet, sharp rocks.

Serana turned and shouted something, but the howling of the wind and the breaking of the waves made it impossible to hear, so Roë just gestured towards her ear. With a nod, Serana pointed forward and stuck up her thumb. Right, that was where they needed to go.

The next moment, Serana was gone. When Roë approached, she saw the tunnel, only half as tall as a man, that led back into the island.

“Oh by the way,” she heard Serana’s voice somewhere ahead of her. “You can see better in the dark as a Vampire too. It uses up some blood, but just a tiny bit. Go ahead, give it a go.”

Roë already knew how: all she had to do was will herself to see better, and indeed, in shades of dull grey, the cavern interior became visible, and the form of Serana, ahead of her, creeping bent-over through the cavern. After a few steps, the tunnel became taller, and they could walk normally.

“My father probably knows this escape tunnel exists,” Serana explained, “but it’s not something he thought of when he looked for my mother, I bet. Heh.”

The emerged into a clearing, a large open space overgrown with weeds and gnarled trees. In the middle was a large white circle, also overgrown with creepers and moss, and when Roë looked closer, she realized it was a moon dial, the needle embraced by a spiral of thorn bushes.

“Here’s the garden. If we just keep going straight, we’ll end up in the castle, in a hollow wine barrel. But that’s not what we wanna do.”

“Obviously.”

“But my mother had a mechanism in place. Involved the moon dial. You just had to turn the dial like so…” she bent, slid her fingers between the thorn branches, and turned the needle one quarter. “… and then take out this crest…” she did so, pulling the small half-moon tile out with her fingernails, tearing off the weeds that had grown around it. “... and press this button underneath.”

There was a click, then a grating of stone on stone, and the sound of fibres and branches breaking as the entire moon dial, face and all, ground out of the way, revealing a staircase leading down.

“That’s neat,” Roë remarked.

“Isn’t it? Come on, let’s see where my mother is.”

“Mother?” Serana called out as they slowly descended the stairs. “Mother, it’s me, Serana. I really need to talk to you.”

“Doesn’t seem anyone’s here,” Roë remarked when no answer came.

The place they were standing in was a kind of library. Or no, a laboratory. And not just any old kind of laboratory. There were the ‘normal’ alchemy paraphernalia, like an alembic, a mortar and pestle, and all that, along with glass jars containing herbs and powders, most of which had long since withered away into dust, but there were other things too. Less harmless-looking things. Tongs to extract teeth, rusty serrated knives, glass jars, their insides caked with dark red, dried mush, that were labelled with all kinds of organ names, the original contents now long decayed and left as the dry gunk sticking to the glass. And things she never thought she’d see in her life, but she knew exactly what they were.

“Serana,” she asked, pointing to the petrified basket. “Are these…?”

“Mm?” Interrupting her search through the half-decayed books that filled the cases against the far wall, she looked where Roë was pointing and said casually, “Oh. Yes, they are.” She went back to scanning the books.

“And your mother… _used_ these?”

“Mm, what? Uh, yeah. I think so.” Again to the books. She seemed to consider it perfectly normal. But there was nothing normal about these things, the large, pale blue-purple gems lying in the basket. These roughly-cut chunks of crystal weren’t regular precious stones, they were soul gems, necromantic creations used to trap people’s souls and then use them as fuel for enchantments or spells. They were used to snare, and then literally burn up people’s souls. Not their bodies or their lives, but their actual _souls_. The thought alone made Roë feel afraid to even look at them.

“Actually,” Serana said, looking through one of the books, “I need one of those.” Still reading, she held out her hand and motioned for Roë to give her one.

“I’m not touching those,” Roë said immediately. No way.

With a grin and a roll of her eyes, Serana stepped over to her and took out one of the gems. “You big baby.” She flicked it in the air and caught it again. “I remember my mother writing a diary, this one, and…” she struggled to call back the memory. “… saying if I ever needed her, I’d find the way in this book.”

“Uh, Serana, that book looks brand new.”

“I know,” Serana muttered with an absent nod, reading intently. “It’s enchanted against decay.”

“Oh.” Roë let Serana read and looked around the lab, with its creepy alchemy and necromancy attributes. All this stuff wasn’t for her. She was just a stupid guardswoman. Again she realized she was probably in way over her head with all this. Soul gems, of all things. Her parents used to tell her horrifying stories about those when she was a child. About necromancers in general. ‘You can get killed doing dangerous work’, they’d say, ‘but if you die, there are other realms for you to go. But without your _soul_ …’ Her mother would always tap her chest when she said the word, ‘you’re _gone_. Not dead, but _gone_. Imagine spending forever in a dark room with no walls. Forever. Not years, not centuries, but forever. That’s what it’s like’.

Roë realized her mother couldn’t possibly know what it was like, but still, the thought was scary.

“Right,” Serana drew her from her thoughts. “You’ll have to stand back a bit. I’m going to show you something… well, pretty amazing, if it works.”

“Alright… amaze me. But hey…”

Serana looked up at her.

“… this isn’t going to be some of that necromantic cack, is it?”

“Afraid it will be. In a way. But hey, Roë, you’re a damn Vampire. Necromancy is your friend, embrace it.”

“I’d… rather stick to good old sword and claw action, thanks.”

“Pft, you’re no fun. Anyway, watch this!”

Serana held up the soul gem in her fist, and closing her eyes, she crushed it into fine shards, that fell apart into powder as she opened her hand again.

There was a sudden feeling that Roë could only think of as a… bump in reality, a feeling of brief displacement, and at Serana’s feet, the stone melted apart, creating a large hole with stairs leading down. From the portal, black-blue tendrils of shadowy unlight began to flow, as if the smoky vapours themselves wanted to escape the hole… or take the air of this world back with it.

“This is the Soul Cairn,” Serana explained, though her voice betrayed that she could scarcely believe it herself. “It’s… a special place.”

“I… so it seems,” Roë said hoarsely. Slowly, she came to stand next to Serana and peered down the hole. It was a world of dark blacks and blues, not of light but of something else. Something she simply couldn’t describe. The stairs only made up a few steps, and from there, big rocks were suspended in the air, hanging free but close to each other, forming a sort of suspended staircase. Below them, far below, so far they almost couldn’t see, was the ground of that dismal place.

“When necromancers use the soul gems, it’s said that the soul inside is consumed, right?”

Roë nodded, even though she could only half hear what Serana was saying, her attention taken up by the opening below her. This was actually a portal to another world. Another dimension.

“Well, that’s not entirely true. What actually happens, is that the gem forms a conduit to that place. The soul is sent there, and the beings who rule the Cairn provide power to the spell or the enchantment as payment.”

“So… this is a prison for souls?”

“You could say that.”

“But… Serana, we can’t possibly go down there,” Roë realized. “What if we become trapped?”

“We won’t be. I gave a soul as offering to open the portal, the rulers of the Cairn will honour the agreement.”

That didn’t put Roë at ease. “What about… what about the souls that are imprisoned there?”

“Mm. That’s a different matter,” Serana admitted. “After all, they’re spending eternity there without a body. They’ll probably do anything to get a hold of one.”

This wasn’t true. This couldn’t be happening. Serana did not seriously want them to go down there. If those souls stole their bodies, there was no telling…

“I’m joking, you scaredy-pants,” Serana chuckled. “No, the souls won’t even know we’re there. My mother’s gone inside the Cairn a few times. It’s perfectly safe. Only thing we can encounter are skeletons, souls who somehow… willed a body into existence, I don’t know? But don’t worry, they’ll only try to kill us, not steal our bodies.”

That was hardly reassuring

“Roë. We’re Vampiric royalty. Please. We can deal with a few skeletons.”

“I’m not too keen on going down there.”

Serana shrugged. “Then stay. Just wait for me here.”

Without a care, Serana went down the floating steps and then jumped from suspended stone to suspended stone, hopping down into the terrifying otherworld.

Roë watched her jump down, lower and lower. She didn’t even look up.

Was she going to let her go alone? And risk her not coming back, or think of her as a coward? She couldn’t bear the thought, and Serana did make it look very safe, with her carefree hops down the stones.

She had a choice. Hold onto this world, or hold onto Serana. And she knew what she wanted.

Setting her teeth, she went down the first step and followed Serana, jumping down the stones one at a time. It was only when she found herself actually standing on those floating rocks, nothing next to her, nothing below her, that she realized how high she was, and vertigo washed over her. She was a Vampire, she could probably survive the fall and repair the damage, but that didn’t stop her from becoming dizzy. It would be the single most painful thing in her whole existence if she fell now.

She carefully lowered herself down, rock after rock, deciding against the confident, playful hops that Serana used. It took a long time to get down, and the lower she got, the more she could make out. The Soul Cairn was a plain of immeasurable size, stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction, an expanse of dark purple soil that looked like it moved. Roë didn’t doubt that it would feel like anything but soil once she set foot on it.

Serana had already made it down, and stood looking up at her, waiting for Roë to arrive.

As she descended further, climbing down from stone to stone, she saw a massive structure on the horizon, a sort of castle, except it wasn’t… it looked like a castle, but it wasn’t a building made of stone and mortar. Spires with jagged edges reached up to the black-blue sky, vapours coiling around the highest towers.

She climbed down, and eventually reached the ground, Serana greeting her with a smile. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Roë felt safe, but only because Serana was here with her. She’d follow her to the ends of Nirn if she had to. Through the fires of Oblivion and back. And it wasn’t simply because Serana was the only friend in the world she had. It was time to admit to herself what was going on inside her, what had been going on inside her for a long time now. She couldn’t imagine her friend not feeling the same way, but it was better to keep quiet for now.

“You coming?”

“I’ll go wherever you go, Serana.”

The darkness couldn’t scare her, the misery of this realm couldn’t sadden her, the wailing of the lost souls that sometimes rang out on the wind couldn’t hurt her. As her feet walked over the eerily immaterial surface of the Soul Cairn, dark purple vapour trailing around her ankles like weightless water, she just looked at Serana, walking just ahead of her and looking back every so often, and realized that if she was going to be this dead, cold wretch of a body, only one thing could bring her happiness again, and that was staying with Serana forever. She was a friend no longer, she’d become the world to Roë.

Of all places, in this horrifying realm of shadow and darkness, or maybe just because of it, Roë finally stopped fighting her own feelings, and let herself fall in love.

 


	39. Falnas: An Eel In The Net

**FALNAS**

**An Eel In The Net**

**The Ratway**

 

“So ‘ere’s the plan,” Delvin said to Falnas after the others had left on their respective thieving sprees. Falnas hoped they’d all be back safe. “Brother’ood girl doesn’t know what we’re plannin’. She comes in, we invite ‘er to sit in the chair. Once she does, we ‘old ‘er down and snap the manacles on.”

Falnas noticed the iron bands set on hinges. They were open now, hanging under the chair’s armrest, and could be brought up and snapped closed to trap the wrists of the unfortunate occupant. But… wasn’t this incredibly risky?

“Uh, Delvin…”

“Yeah mate?”

“Isn’t this, well, a deadly assassin? A highly-trained killer?”

Delvin shook his head. “Nah mate. With a few exceptions, like that hairy oaf Astrid still buggers with, Brother’ood assassins are good at sneakin’, an' plannin’, an' poisonin', an' shankin’ a feller in the back.” He chuckled. “They’re usually no damn good in a straight fight. Her escapin’s gonna be a bigger concern’n our safety.”

“Still risky, though.”

“Life’s all ‘bout risks, mate. If we don’t get this little nightingale to sing, life’s gonna be very ‘ard for us.”

“She’s not gonna sing. She can’t even talk.”

Delvin chuckled. “Yeah, well, ’make this nightingale write’ don’t ‘ave the same ring to it, does it?”

So that was the plan then. Invite her into the Cistern, get her to take a seat, and _clink._ “What if she doesn’t want to sit?”

“Then we _make_ ‘er, mate. She’s just a slip of a girl right? We can overpower ‘er easily enough.”

Heh, right, ‘slip of a girl’, he’d never live that down. There was another concern, though. “Won’t this bring the Brotherhood down on us?”

Delvin shook his head. “Got it sorted with Astrid. Got the feelin’ she isn’t too keen on our little guttersnipe.”

“So once we’ve got her, then what?”

He shrugged. “Then li’l guttersnipe gets a choice. Write down the name of the contractor the easy way, or write it down the ‘ard way.”

“And the hard way entails…?”

Delvin looked at the door grimly. “Let’s hope it don’t come to that. ‘Ere she is now.”

The door opened, and led inside by one of the few remaining Initiates, was the Brotherhood girl, an irritated look on her face, her frown even more accentuated by the straight-cut brown fringe over her forehead. Siari, right, that's what her name was.

“Evenin’, Siari. Come on in, ‘ave a seat.”

The girl approached warily, her eyes flicking back and forth between Falnas and Delvin, but she didn’t sit down.

“Go on,” Delvin insisted. “Your legs must be tired, sit down.”

The girl simply shook her head and remained standing.

Delvin let out a disappointed sigh, and before Falnas knew what was happening, he lunged at her, grabbed her by the hair above her ear and faster than she could react with anything more than a pained yelp, planted her butt squarely in the chair. She made to claw at him, but Delvin blocked the attacks with his shoulders and grabbed her by the wrists. “Clamps, move it!”

Falnas immediately did as he was told, first closing one clamp around the girl’s wrist, then moving around to close the other, as the young assassin struggled and kicked at Delvin, kicking her foot straight forward, trying to break his knee. But before she could get a hit in, Falnas had closed the second clamp, and they could let her go and retreat to a safe distance.

The girl struggled in the chair, kicking out at them, her normally pretty face contorted in an ugly snarl, her teeth bared. A few locks of hair were pulled free of her ponytail, and quite a few strands hung between Delvin’s fingers.

“No sense strugglin’, ya little ankle-biter. This’ll be over in a second if you tell us what we need to know.” Delvin stood hunched over, his face pained. “Phooah. Little daedra scamp got me in the nads.”

Falnas took over, telling the captured girl, “You were sent to kill Mjoll, weren’t you?”

The girl just looked at them, breathing hard through her nose, her mouth tightly shut, her shoulders pressed against the back of the chair. Falnas didn’t think he’d ever gotten a look of such contained fury in his life. She was pretty enough, but now she looked downright ugly, and her muteness just made her that much more unsettling, the fact that she couldn't form words made her seem like even more of an animal.

“Don’t bother denyin’,” Delvin grunted at her, recovered from his rather critical encounter with the girl’s knee. “What you’re gonna do, dolly girl, is write down the name of your contractor. That’s all we want, then you can go.”

It was a lie, but not a terribly rotten one. They’d spring her from jail after turning her over to the guard anyway. If there was one thing the Guild was good at, it was a good old jailbreak.

The girl just kept glaring at them, breathing hard through her nose.

“Don’t make this any ‘arder ‘n it’s gotta be, lass,” Delvin said, his voice already unhappy with her lack of cooperation and the actions he’d have to take to ensure it. “The contractor for the Mjoll killin'. Just one name.”

Still no response.

Again faster than either Falnas or the girl could react, Delvin let his hand lash out, whacking her straight across the face, so hard the side of her head banged against the hard wooden back of the chair. Her head rocked from the blow, and when her eyes opened, they were briefly crossed before turning to normal again. Tears welled up in them, but still she didn’t show any sign of capitulation.

“Come on, girl. Don’t make me do this,” Delvin said, and Falnas didn’t think the regret in his voice was acted. “You’re breakin’ my ‘eart.”

The tears fell, running down her cheekbones, one of which was rapidly swelling. She hung her head, but still no surrender. Still, Delvin kneeled in front of her, pushed a piece of paper under her right hand and held a stick of charcoal between her fingers. “Go on. Write it down, ‘s all we ask.”

Falnas didn't agree with this treatment. “Delvin. Can I talk to you for a second?”

“What, mate?”

He motioned towards the end of the Cistern.

With a sigh, Delvin followed him, leaving the girl in her chair on the middle of the bridge that ran over the water.

“Delvin, I don't think we should hurt her too bad.”

His friend rolled his eyes in irritation. “Look mate, she'll recover from a few knocks in a day or two. It's more for intimidation purposes than to inflict injury.”

“Doesn't matter, it's still - ”

“This is the Guild, mate. This is part of the job, yeah? If your 'eart's too weak for an occasional beatin', then just go sit in the Ragged Flagon 'til I'm done.”

“Hello. You mind if I take this little bitch with me when you're done?”

What in Oblivion…

A few metres from Siari's chair stood the Initiate that had escorted the little assassin, his hands behind his head, and behind him, a burly looking Nord stood, holding something to the Initiate’s back. Probably a dagger. And did he... look familiar?

“An’ ‘oo the fuck’re you then, twatwaffle?” Delvin barked at him. “You fuckin’ bonkers, mate, forcin’ your way in ‘ere?”

“I don’t give a shit what you want with this little murdering rat,” the Nord said calmly. “All I’m telling you, and I’m not asking, is that when you’re done with her, she comes with me. Alive, and still aware of her surroundings.”

Yeah, no, that wasn’t going to happen. They’d caught this assassin to get answers, not to let some Nord take her away for whatever reasons. Falnas snorted. “As if we’re going to just hand her over to some half-baked snow-eater we don't know. Turn around and walk away while you still can, fur frotter.”

“Look,” the man explained, taking his dagger off the back of the Initiate. “I've got some very personal things to discuss with this little backstabber. Nothing that concerns you. You go ahead and... do whatever it is you want to do to her, all I'm saying is, turn her over to me when you're done or else.”

Delvin chuckled. “Look at that. This dunghead comes to threaten us in our own 'ome. In't that adorable.”

Meanwhile, Falnas motioned towards the Initiate. “Out.” Thankfully, the rather simple-looking Redguard waif did as she was told and scurried out, leaving Falnas to go back to breaking his head over where he'd seen this character before.

“You're right,” the Nord said. “That wasn't very courteous of me. Let me rephrase. My business with her is completely separate from yours. And I'd sincerely appreciate it if, when your business is concluded, you let me take her with me. None of it will come back on you, I guarantee it.”

Falnas shot a brief look at their captive, but she bore a scared yet puzzled expression. She apparently had no idea who this man was, but Falnas knew _he_ did. He looked too familiar for it to be a mistake. His face was young, but his long hair and light beard had gone a premature grey. Vivec's soggy crotch, he'd seen this bugger before. But where?

At that moment, Falnas saw in the other man's eyes that he was wondering, and trying to remember, the same thing. Dammit! Where did he know this guy from?

“Well mate,” Delvin went on. He clearly hadn't seen the man before. “Your business with her isn't our business either. An' that's why we feel no need to 'elp you. So bugger off to wherever you came from an' we won't rob you, your family, an' your little dog blind over the comin' months.” Delvin nudged his chin at the weapon on the man's belt. “An' don't think that axe scares us. We're thieves, an' you're on our turf. We know this place like the back of our 'ands. You'd blunder into ten traps before you'd even get close to us.”

“Like I said,” the man told him, “We got off on the wrong foot due to my overeagerness, but I'm not here for violence. I'm asking for a favour.” He pointed his dagger at the young assassin clamped into the chair. “Her. That's all I ask. Doesn't cost you a thing, doesn't take any effort. All you have to do is let me take her with me after you're done.”

“An' I'm tellin' you that ain't happenin'.”

Unperturbed, the man slowly came even closer to the chair, showing his empty hands. Falnas and Delvin were too far away to be able to stop him from whatever it was he wanted to do. “I just want to talk, is all. Look, how 'bout I help with your interrogation? Because that's clearly what you're doing.”

The girl threw Falnas a pleading glance. She looked scared, much more of this man than of her captors, and Falnas started to believe she had every reason to. This guy didn't just want to have a chat with her, there was something underneath his handsome and friendly face, a terrible anger, no, a need for something, for... was it vengeance?

Delvin let him approach, and Falnas trusted his companion. They approached the chair too, until they all stood around it. If anything went wrong, they could bolt to any corridor they wanted to, and this lumbering woodcutter would never catch them. It would be unfortunate for the assassin, but that was another matter. And both Falnas and Delvin knew that if they got violent with this guy, there wasn't a huge chance of them surviving, because looking at his stance, his controlled movements, this man clearly wasn't some pipe-smoking basket-weaver, this was without a doubt a warrior, and a skilled one at that.

“I'm sure we don't need your 'elp, mate,” Delvin merely said.

“Please, allow me,” the Nord insisted, sounding and looking friendly, but underneath that exterior boiled something terrible. “So, little throatcutter,” he said to the captured assassin, whose face was now completely terrified as she tried to pull away from him. “You don't look like I'd imagined. Not that that will make me think twice. And you probably don't know who I am, do you?”

The girl didn't react, just kept pulling back from him. Her breaths were fast and shallow.

He kneeled by her. “I've been looking for you, though. Came all the way from Jorrvaskr to find you.”

The girl's face became utterly terrified.

With a triumphant grin, he snarled at her, _“That_ turns you white,  doesn't it?! You know what happened at Jorrvaskr, don't you? What you did?”

Jorrvaskr, that was in Whiterun. Of course! That was where he'd seen the guy before! He'd been searching for someone, looking utterly shaken and angry, his clothes smeared with blood. Falnas remembered him throwing his torch on the ground when the woman he was with told her they'd lost their quarry. Was this her? Had this been the person they'd been looking for? And the blood on his clothes, had that been from a dying person? The conclusion was obvious. This girl had murdered someone at Jorrvaskr and got away, but now the jig was up. And so this guy was one of the Companions. They were an honourable sort, but also known to be merciless to those who tried to strike at them, especially if they did so in a cowardly fashion. Like the assassinations the Brotherhood carried out.

The girl's breathing quickened even more, until she was panting in terror, and fresh tears ran down her cheeks. She'd done something terrible there alright.

“This is messed up, mate,” Delvin told Falnas quietly. He had to agree.

“Their names were Njada, Ria and Kodlak,” the man growled at her in barely contained fury. Njada was difficult and petty, but that was because she felt ignored and passed over. Kodlak was a wise, proud man who tried his best, all his life, to keep the Companions honourable, and on the path of right. And Ria...” the anger on his face mixed with grief. “Ria was a kind, hard-working jewel of a girl, who was going to do great things...” His lower lip trembled in both hatred and sorrow, and he told the girl, “You've taken all that away from them, but I want you to know who they were. People, not just names on a list. And they bled to death, or got stabbed through the heart just because you thought it was _just a job_.”

“Mate,” Delvin said to the Nord. “I dunno what 'appened at Jorrvaskr, but you clearly aren't thinkin' straight now. How 'bout we all take a second to calm down an' clear all this up, yeah?”

“I don't need a second,” the Nord grunted. “You murdered my friends, innocent people, you dirty shit stain, and I'm going to make you remember it for the rest of your short, pain-filled life.” From his kneeling position, he looked up at Delvin and Falnas. “You're interrogating her, right?”

“Yes,” Falnas said, “but - ”

“Let me give you a hand,” the Nord said in feigned cheer. He looked beside himself with grief despite it.

The man took out out his knife, set the tip in the wood next to the assassin's left hand. With the other, he grabbed her fingers, leaving out her little finger, which he pressed against the wood. Before Falnas or Delvin could react, he pushed the handle down, and with a wet crunch, the blade bit into the girl's little finger, crushed the bone, and took the digit off at the knuckle.

The girl shrieked, a loud, hysterical and screeching wail, kicking in her chair, and banging the back of her head against the chair's back. The next moment, a dark stain spread on her breeches as her bladder let go of its contents.

“What the fuck, mate?” Delvin shouted, throwing himself at the Nord and giving him a hard push. “You lost your fuckin' mind? This isn't a fuckin' torture chamber!”

The Nord stumbled back a few steps from the shove, and made no attempt to retaliate. Instead, he held up the severed little finger at the girl, who was still yammering in pain, her eyes wet with tears as she looked up at him. “See this? This is only the beginning.” And with that, he threw the dead piece of Siari's body into the stinking water of the Cistern.

The girl watched it go through the air. The severed finger hit the water, making a little splash, then sank down into the muck, mixing with the shit and piss of Riften's inhabitants. She let out a heart-wrenching wail of pain and bereavement when she saw it disappear. Blood ran from the severed knuckle, dripping down the wood of the chair.

This was going all wrong.

“You're fuckin' mad's what you are!” Delvin continued to rail at the Nord. But Falnas knew he wasn't mad. Not of his own. He'd seen it before, a man who'd lost his entire family to arson. He'd finally found the arsonist and tortured him to death, brutally and painfully, and everyone passed it off as the work of a sick mind. The man's mind had indeed been sick, but with grief. This guy was no different.

Still, whatever the reason, whatever the cause, whatever she'd done, this was going all wrong. This girl was going to get tortured to death, and nobody deserved this. Not only that, he had to protect this vengeance-blind Nord against himself as well. Because Falnas knew that after the terrible revenge, would come the horror at what he'd done. People weren't the same after losing themselves in their own insanity. He had to take action, for everyone's good.

And as Delvin kept shouting at the Nord, who didn't even say a word to defend himself and just stood looking at him grimly, Falnas kneeled by Siari, who was slowly rocking back and forth, staring straight ahead, her face wet with tears and snot. “Hey.” When he didn't have her attention straight away, he said again, “ _Hey_. Look at me.”

The girl's eyes flicked towards him, big, wet, and full of despair.

Falnas shot a quick look at the two others, making sure their attention wasn't on him. He placed his hand on the manacle of the chair. “Was it her? The contract. Was it Maven?”

The girl just sat looking at him, panting.

“Come on, we don't have much time. Was it her?”

Slowly, the girl's head went up and down.

“Alright.” After another quick look at the two others, he clicked the manacles open. “Dive. There's pipes that lead out, under the surface. Go, do it now.”

The girl looked at him with an expression of pain, terror and grief, and immense gratitude.

“ _Go._ ”

The next moment, she launched herself off the chair, leaping farther than Falnas thought a human being could. She dove into the water, droplets of blood trailing behind her, and disappeared beneath the surface with a loud and high splash.

The Nord's mouth fell open. “What did you do?” he shouted, rage taking hold of him. “ _What did you do_?”

“What you were doing is wrong, man,” Falnas said, standing up. “You were going to – ”

Abruptly, the man, without hesitation, threw himself off the walkway, diving after her and disappearing beneath the surface with an equally loud splash.

“Well, this is one massive goatfuck, mate.”

“I had to,” Falnas said to Delvin as they stood staring at the frothing water the two had vanished in. “I don't care what she did, nobody deserves this.”

“Maybe, but there goes our only chance to get Maven thrown in jail.”

“I know, but come on, we couldn't – ”

The water splashed up again, and the Nord appeared, bursting from the surface, his mouth wide open as he refilled his lungs with air. Red mixed with the water that ran over his upper lip and chin. Then he was gone again.

“Looks like she's gettin' away,” Delvin merely remarked.

“I hope so.”

Delvin let out a snorting chuckle. “Would you 'ave done the same if our captive was a wrinkled, baldin' Altmer with pockmarks on 'is face?”

Flanas had to admit that this girl made for a much more convincing, and compelling damsel in distress. Still, he said, “I... hope I would have, yes.”

“Yeah. It's just easier when it's a pretty slip of a girl with big brown eyes, innit? We're all 'uman.” he sighed, putting his hands in his sides. “This makes things very difficult though. We're not gonna be able to catch 'er again. It looks fuckin' bleak's what it does.”

“It's not lost yet.” He clapped Delvin on the shoulder. “Hey, we're the Guild. We'll find a way.”

 


	40. Keljarn: Filicide

 

**KELJARN**

**Filicide**

**Near Falkreath**

Close to midnight, now. He’d arrived a bit early and had a chance to scout out the location. He hadn’t found anyone, and since he’d thoroughly looked, even going inside the construction site, he was firmly convinced that he was alone, at least for now.

He had no idea why his mystery letter-writer had demanded to meet him here. Probably because it was abandoned at night, and easy to find. Plenty of hiding places too. The big manor that was being erected out of stone and wood was half-finished, and this made it a good, though slightly dangerous, place to hide oneself. Keljarn had no idea who was building this place, and he didn’t care. All he cared about was some answers. Whatever his mystery pen pal wanted, it’d lead to him knowing more. Because it wasn’t his life, that was certain. Whoever wrote him the note could have slit his throat when he was sleeping in the library.

He looked back up from the bushes he’d been hiding behind and saw, in the clearing ahead, a female figure sitting casually on a tree stump, only metres away from him. By the Nine, how had this woman approached so closely without a sound? Then he remembered he was dealing with the Brotherhood, and this one seemed to be one of them, the darkened leather armour and knives at her belt made that very clear if the mask didn’t already.

“You can come out from there, you know,” the woman said, her eyes on him. “You’re not very good at this hiding and sneaking around business.”

Not showing his embarrassment at being spotted, Keljarn came out from the bushes and walked up to her, his hand on the handle of his axe.

“Oh please,” the woman scoffed. “I’m just here to talk. If I wanted you dead, then… well, I’m not going to resort to clichés.” The voice sounded in her late thirties, or early forties. Her age regardless, she seemed to be in very good physical shape from the way her body looked, wrapped tightly in those leathers.

“So talk.”

“Before I start, I have your word that this will be a peaceful and civilized meeting, yes?”

Keljarn shrugged. “Sure.” _As long as you tell me what I need to know._

“Good. Neither of us have anything to gain by letting this turn violent.”

“So. What did you want to meet with me for?” Keljarn said at the woman, taking care to sound as unfriendly, and unimpressed, as possible.

“Two reasons,” the woman said, sliding off the tree stump and putting her hands in her sides. “First, we take the Black Sacrament seriously. Desecrating our ritual gets you a warning to start, so now you’ve had yours. There won’t be a second.”

As if he was scared of the Dark Brotherhood. “That’s nice. And the second reason?”

“The second reason,” the woman said with a sigh, “is the strange idea you have that one of us has wronged you in some way.”

“Is that a strange idea?” Keljarn asked. The night was completely quiet, the moon reflecting off the lake near the manor. “Because I don’t think it’s a strange idea.”

The masked woman laughed in derision. “I’m sure you think you’re onto something, but you’re not. We had nothing to do with this, I’m telling you now. And on that note, I’d like to give you a piece of advice.”

Keljarn raised his eyebrow. This would be good.

“Back off. Don’t go digging into our business. People who do, well, they tend to end up dead.” She sighed. “And I’d promised myself not to resort to clichés.”

“So that’s why you wanted to meet, here, at midnight, like the corny stereotype that you are?” Kejlarn asked. He didn’t buy a word of it.

“That’s pretty much it,” the woman simply said. “One, stop desecrating the Sacrament, and two, back off. You’re risking a lot and wasting your time.”

Nice try, bitch. If he was wasting his time, this woman never would have risked meeting him, because they’d have nothing to hide. The fact that she came all this way and took this chance meant there most certainly _was_ something to hide, and this bint tried to discourage him from finding anything. They hadn’t murdered him because that would have been too drastic, but they were clearly trying to throw him off the scent. “I don’t believe you.”

The woman shrugged and turned away. Over her shoulder, she said, “Then don’t. But you’re putting your life on the line for nothing.”

No, no. Keljarn wasn’t going to settle for that. He’d keep it diplomatic as long as he got the answers he needed, and these weren’t the answers he needed.

“I’m not convinced.”

The woman took a few steps, and again over her shoulder, said, “You keep not being convinced all you like. Have a nice night.”

If he let her walk now, he’d lose every chance to get answers and find the one who’d murdered Kodlak, Njada and Ria. He didn’t like breaking his word, but this was for the greater good. He couldn’t let this one walk away.

It wouldn’t be a nice night for this snooty, condescending coward.

In a few leaps, he had cleared the distance to her, and she was just in time to whirl around and let her eyes go wide before he body-slammed into her, taking her down like the frail, weak thing she was. They crashed into the ground, Keljarn fully in control of the struggle, and he pinned her to the ground.

“We agreed not to fight each other,” she panted, trying to get him off her. “You said you – ”

Keljarn shut the woman up with a hard punch straight into her mask. Her eyes rolled back, but then settled on him again.

“What are you doing? You – ”

This one learned things the hard way, it seemed, so he did what had to be done. He struck the woman hard in the face again and again, _Whap! Whap!,_ his fist pounding into her, _Whap!_ ,hammering the resistance out of her. _Whap! Whap! Whap!_

Now the woman’s eyes didn’t fix back on him, remaining rolled back in their sockets. Her arms lay splayed outward.

“Not as tough as they said you were,” Keljarn growled at the assassin. “Now, I know you were lying to me. Tell me. Tell me who it was and you get to live.”

The woman’s eyes moved, her eyelids fluttering, and she convulsed as she went into a coughing fit, blood soaking through her mask where her nose and mouth were.

“As mute as you are innocent, huh?” Keljarn snarled. “Let’s see that face of yours to start.”

With one hard jerk, he tore the mask off her, revealing the face of a woman, indeed in her early forties, who must have been good-looking before Keljarn had done what he had to. Now her nose was clearly broken, her lips split, and as a thick stream of blood ran out of her mouth and down her cheek to her ear, a fragment of tooth ran down with it. Her eyebrow had burst, and the cheek below was rapidly swelling and discolouring. He hoped it hurt.

“Now then, I ask again. Who was it? Who did you send to murder my friends after the Silver Hand paid you?”

The woman let out a hoarse laugh, her teeth red with blood. Two of her incisors had a piece broken off. “I’m not telling you anything,” she slurred.

“I thought you assassins thought of yourselves first,” Keljarn growled, pulling her dagger from her belt and putting the tip against the underside of her chin. “Don’t you?”

Panting, the woman croaked, “No. You don’t know the… first thing about us. We… care about family. I care about my family.”

“Enough to get your throat cut for them?”

“Much more.” The woman’s eyes settled on his, and he saw something else in them. A kind of… weariness? Resignation? Even more than that?

“Go ahead. Do what you have to do,” she said, perfectly calm. This wasn’t defiance, it was the opposite. “I don’t care anymore. What does it still matter.”

She was sincere, she’d really given up, and threatening her with death would no longer work. Keljarn knew he’d have to go to depths he had never gone before, and that he would hate himself for it, but this was necessary. He had to do this.

Overcoming his revulsion with himself, he leaned down until he was inches from her face, and said, “I’m not going to kill you. Not yet. First I’m going to rape you, and when I’m done, I’m gutting you and stringing you up by your own bowels. Then I’m going to find where you hide, and believe me, _I will_ , because you will tell me before you die, you’ll _scream_ it, and then me and my friends are going to break the door down and murder the lot of you.” He came even closer, trying not to hate himself for what he was saying. He felt physically ill at his own threats, even though they weren’t more than that, and would never be. It was a bluff, but one that made him feel nauseous. But he couldn’t show his own revulsion, he had to do this. “And we won’t kill them straight away. First we will rape every woman. Every girl. Every boy. One at a time. And they’ll have to watch. Every. Single. One.”

The woman felt just as horrible as he did, he could tell from her bloody and broken face, etched with terror and disgust. “No, you… you wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t I?” he hissed in her face. “You’ll never know, will you?” She broke, he saw it clearly. She was about to spill it. Just a little nudge. “All those horrible things will happen to them, to your family, because _you_ couldn’t protect them. Because _you_ were too much of a coward to give me one single name.”

“If I… If I do this,” she whispered, breaking into sobs, “will you leave my family alone?”

“I will. If you’re telling the truth.”

“You… you swear?”

“I do,” he said solemnly. The beatings, the threats, all those terrible things seemed forgotten, and this moment was peaceful and serene. He meant his vow, and during that short moment, this woman was his closest confidante. The oath he swore bound them intimately, however briefly. “I just want justice for what happened to my friends.”

The assassin closed her eyes, tears running from them. “Night Mother forgive me.” She took a breath and with her eyes still closed, whispered, “Siari. Her name is Siari. She’s one of my youngest assassins. She… returns from a job tonight. Then I’m supposed to send her to Riften.”

“She?” All this time, he’d assumed it was a man. But of course, that had never been more than an assumption. “Keep talking. What does she look like?”

“She’s sixteen. Brown hair… in a ponytail. Fringe.” It looked like it caused her physical pain to betray her fellow Brotherhood member.

“Give me something better. A way to recognize her.”

Fresh tears ran from her closed eyes. “She… she can’t speak. Doesn’t... have a tongue.”

“That’s better. Riften, huh? Alright. If she’s not there tomorrow, I’ll murder the lot of you. Like I said. There’s plenty of your blood on my clothes. All I have to do is walk to a scryer, and I’ll know where you’re hiding.”

He got up, leaving the woman in the dirt, broken in body and heart. He felt for her, briefly, but then he remembered Ria dying in his arms. He took a few steps back and told the prone assassin, “One thing. I want you to know this. I was lying about what I’d do to your family. I’ll still kill them if you double-cross me, but those other horrible things I said…”

“I don’t care,” the woman sobbed, covering her eyes with one arm. “What have I done. I’m sorry, Siari. My daughter. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re protecting a murderer,” Keljarn said, stepping back. “And you’re a murderer yourself. Your paths lead right to the gallows, and you knew this when you started. It’s too late for remorse.”

“Wait, before you go,” the leader of the assassins implored. Keljarn remained where he was, looking at the woman as she got up, groaning in pain, and got to her knees before him. “Please. Find it in yourself to let her live. And if you can’t, then…”

“What?”

She was before him, upright on her knees, her face streaked with blood and tears. “… Don’t let her suffer. I’ve never begged before in my life, but this time I do. I beg you.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “… from a mother’s heart.”

It was a plea he couldn’t promise to fulfil. Not after what this person had done to Kodlak, and Njada, and Ria. He simply couldn’t. “We’ll see.”

“I’ve got no idea what you two are doing, and I don’t give a shit, but if you don’t get off my land right now, you’ll both wish you’d never been born.”

What in Oblivion…?

The assassin, swaying back and forth on her knees, blood streaked over her swollen face, was not lucid enough to actually notice the person approaching, but Keljarn saw her well enough. Striding towards them was a female dressed in armour that looked like it was made from massive bones. In her hand was a wicked, slightly curved and jagged longsword. Pale blonde hair swayed as she walked.

“Go on, go act out your adventurous fantasies somewhere else. I’m building a house here, for fuck’s sake. People these days, no Nine-damned respect. Go on, clear off.”

Ah, damn it. The owner of this construction site. What on Nirn was she doing walking around in the middle of the night? Whatever it was, she didn’t look like a pushover.

Wait. The armour made from bones. _Dragon_ bones. This was the honest-to-Talos Dragonborn herself. _Oh, of all the people…!_

He couldn’t stay to explain the situation. From what he’d heard of this woman, she was hot-headed, and had almost no regard for human life. It was probably exaggerated, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. This woman was more powerful than all the Companions put together, able to tear man or mer to pieces with a single shout. Even shifting wouldn’t be able to give him the advantage, because the Dragonborn’s voice had a wide range of powers, one of them reputedly being to hammer any shape-shifted creatures back into their human form.

Before he ran, he shot a brief look back and forth between the still-dazed Brotherhood leader and the Dovahkiin, then let his foot fly through the air, and connecting perfectly with her face, he kicked the assassin’s lights out.


	41. Siari: Crucible

  **SIARI**

**Crucible**

**Outside Sanctuary**

 

A gift from the Night Mother. Siari had no idea what to expect, but she knew it’d be exciting. “A dark pool”, the Night Mother had said. Well… there was a little pond there. Not exactly dark, and not exactly a pool, but she figured it was the Night Mother’s sense of drama at work when she described it so mellifluously. She stood by it, waiting for something to happen. Did a shadow just move in the water? It looked like it, but it could have been her imagination. The moon wasn’t being much help either.

Siari hoped the Night Mother hadn’t decided to get rid of her and sent some kind of terrible underwater creature with tentacles to drag her into the depths. Then she realized how ridiculous that was.

Yes, it was definitely a shadow. She kept her eyes fixed on the pool, not even realizing she was taking a few steps back. As she looked, the water began first to ripple, and then to bubble, growing wilder and wilder until it heaved and foamed violently.

Siari held her breath as the water from the small pond turned into a white, frothing pillar of water, and a dark mass began to rise to the surface. The idea of a tentacle monster dragging her below the water didn’t seem all that irrational anymore. After all, the joke went that tentacle monsters had a thing for teenage girls, for some reason.

But it wasn’t a tentacle that surfaced. It was a jet-black, majestic and terrifying horse’s head. The eyes opened, shining lights of blood red set in the deep black coat, as the horse kicked and stomped, pushing itself out of the water. It was bigger than any horse Siari had ever seen, and its coat was so black it didn’t even reflect the light.

As Siari looked on in amazement, the horse freed itself from the water and set its powerful hooves on the bank, then trotted over to her.

_You would not be a true Listener without this gift. Shadowmere has been the steed of every Listener as the ages went by, and you too have earned this right. You require no reins, no saddle. Shadowmere will take you where you need to go, more quickly and more quietly than any horse could. This is my gift to you, my Listener. My gift to the servant of Sithis._

The Night Mother’s voice in her head fell quiet. And as if the horse knew, it let out a low, gruff snort and gently nudged Siari’s cheek with its muzzle. It felt ice cold, but not uncomfortable or disconcerting. Carefully, Siari extended her hand and gave its muzzle a light, nervous stroke. When the horse didn’t object, she gave it another one, this time more confident and determined. Despite its sinister red eyes, Shadowmere seemed friendly enough. To her, at least. Siari didn’t doubt the horse would be far less docile to others.

She supposed she should try riding it, but how could she mount without stirrups? Or ride the massive steed without a saddle? She walked to the beast’s side and placed her hands on its back. The Night Mother had said she needed no saddle or reins, so maybe all it took was some faith?

Her hands firmly on Shadowmere’s back, she jumped as high as she could, and as if carried by an invisible force, she went up with ease, hoisting herself securely on her mount’s back. Despite the lack of a saddle, she sat firmly and comfortably, and without reins, she just placed her hands on the sides of Shadowmere’s neck, and found that the position felt natural and pleasant.

With a single tap on the side of the mount’s neck, she sent Shadowmere speeding through the forest, past the construction site not far from the Sanctuary, then skirting Falkreath and galloping across the plains to the east. She didn’t have to shout instructions or pull reins, just gently exert some pressure with her hands to guide the beast to where she needed to go.

With the wind rushing through her hair as she barrelled across the plains, the horse’s hooves making no more sound than two pairs of Elven feet, Siari felt amazing.

The walls of Riften came into view after a couple of hours already, and as the city came closer, Shadowmere, of its own accord, slowed to a gentle trot, then stopped around a hundred metres from the wall. Siari dismounted without effort, but the horse would go no further, not even to the stables.

Realizing Shadowmere could probably take care of itself until she got back, she gave it a smile and a pat on the side, and with a snort and a nod of the head, the horse trotted off. Siari hoped it wasn’t expecting soothing words, because, well…

The experience had been wonderful, and Siari already longed for the ride back, but first, she had this highly unpleasant business to take care of. Funny how the Night Mother brought her joy, and Astrid only brought her these… stinking chores.

Market day again. Ugh. Not only did Siari _hate_ crowds, she also realized this would make it even more difficult to get spotted by the right Guild gopher, since the place would be crawling with them today. And of course, she hated, hated, _hated_ Riften. Being sent back to this shit hole was bad enough, but having to “answer some questions” the Guild had was even worse.

Just being near the Orphanage made her feel nauseous and miserable, and even though it was only minutes ago, the time she spent thundering across the plains and feeling amazing, mighty and special felt like it never happened, and she was that little girl again, huddled in the corner, crying like a worthless piece of waste and protecting herself with her hands as Grelod made the paddle come down again and again, the hard wood striking her where it could, trying to find soft spots to provide as much pain as possible. Despite the enchanted leather she wore, regardless of the lives she’d ended, she felt humiliated and worthless again, an orphaned runt with no right to live.

Even murdering Grelod hadn’t gotten rid of that feeling.

A young Redguard woman noticed her and came towards her. These Guild Initiates sure were bunglers, dressed clearly in thieving attire, leather jerkins with lots of pockets, and the eternal hood. Because unlike Siari, these people were _not_ supposed to flaunt their nature. Siari didn’t steal, didn’t break the law apart from committing her one murder, and most authority figures had accepted Brotherhood assassins as an evil best ignored. These thieves though, they were fair game for arrest or incarceration. And while wearing Guild outfits wasn’t enough to get arrested, it was certainly enough to make guards keep an extra sharp eye on you, and being noticed by the Guard was the last thing a thief needed. Were these Initiates so desperate to show they were big, bad Guild members, or were they simply stupid?

“Are you uh, Siari?” the Redguard girl asked. She was about her age, but from the looks in her eyes, Siari could tell she was only half as intelligent. And yet, she looked familiar.

Giving the girl an irritated look, Siari nodded. Nice and subtle, saying her name out loud in the middle of a market square.

“I’m supposed to take you t – ”

Her expression livid, Siari put a finger on her mouth. For Sithis’ sake, girl, _shut up_.

“Oh don’t worry,” the girl said. “I’m going to get caught stealing.” She leaned in and whispered, “I’m uh, you know, one of the decoys. Guards focus on me, but I don’t do anything wrong, and the other members, dressed like, well, you know, normal people, do the stealing.”

Oh, right. That made sense. Still, she was being anything but subtle.

“Come on.” She spoke slowly, drawing out the words, as if she’d lose track of what she was saying if she went faster.

She started walking, and Siari followed. She knew there was a secret entrance at the cemetery, and hoped this dim wick would lead her there, instead of making her go all the way through the stinking sewers of this already foul-smelling shit-pool of a city.

“You knew my sister,” the dim girl said as they walked. “From the Orphanage. I got sold off earlier. My sister later, to someone else.”

That’s why she’d looked familiar. And that’s why this girl hadn’t been surprised at Siari’s silence. She knew, of course, about her missing bits. And she knew that at one time, Siari had been a whimpering, pathetic piece of meat that wet the bed at night, got paddled across her bare behind and had to clean the floors with bloody knees and tears in her eyes, just like her.

The thought made her incredibly uncomfortable.

“I managed to get out and join the Guild,” the girl continued, unasked. “My sister, she…” She trailed off. Siari knew what had happened to her. The way they’d fished her out of the water, with all the horrible marks on and in her. Only twelve. She hadn’t been the only one.

Thankfully, the Initiate left the small talk for what it was and led her to the cemetery, being stupid enough to open the mausoleum hatch while Siari stood looking. So now she knew exactly how to get inside herself, if she ever needed to. All it took was to press the diamond-shaped mark in one of the walls, and while keeping it depressed, turn it a quarter to the left. Idiot girl. Siari bet that if this girl had been the one in the canal and her sister had lived, this whole process would have been completed with far less embarrassing mistakes.

The Initiate motioned for her to go down. “It’s down there.”

You don’t say, numbskull.

With a grunting sigh and a roll of her eyes, Siari descended into the underground corridors, and after letting her eyes adjust to the light, or lack thereof, she opened the door that led to the Cistern. The Ragged Flagon itself was deserted, and when she noticed the idiot girl had followed her, she gave her a questioning look.

“Everyone’s away on, you know, jobs,” the girl said in her slow speech. “Except Delvin and Falnas. They’re, um, waiting for you in the next room.”

Why not just in the Ragged Flagon? Damn this dumb job, damn this Guild and damn this fucking city.

Still Siari stomped on, cutting through the Flagon and opening the door that led to the antechamber, a large, circular empty room with a narrow bridge that led to the other side, and apart from that, nothing but water.

There they were. The Breton, who was tolerable, and the Dunmer, who was not. What a jackass he was. This idiocy better be over soon.

The Breton said something to the Dunmer, and then nodded at her. Behind her, she heard the Initiate leave and close the door.

“Evenin’, Siari,” the man with the shaved head called to her. “Come on in, ‘ave a seat.”

Why was this meeting here? And why was there only one chair? Just one chair? Was this how the Guild conducted meetings? She approached, but stayed wary, keeping her eyes on the both of them.

She certainly wasn’t having a seat. This stank. Everything about this meeting stank.

“Go on, your legs must be tired,” the Breton insisted. “Sit down.”

Why were they so eager to let her sit? She wasn’t having any of it. With a shake of her head, she remained where she was.

The Breton let out an impatient sigh, and the next moment, his hand shot out, so fast Siari couldn’t react in time. His fist grabbed the hair above her ear and wrenched. Yelping in pain, Siari tried to get her dagger out, but with a strength she hadn’t expected he had, he pushed her in the chair, then snatched her wrists. She kicked out, and tried to claw at him, but this man knew how to fight, and everything she tried was ineffectual. Snarling, she kept struggling, even as the bastard ordered the other, “Clamps, move it!”

The next moment, a cold steel cuff closed around her one wrist, pinning it to the chair, and then the Dunmer tried to force her free wrist in the other manacle.

She kicked straight forward, aiming at the Breton’s knee, hoping to break it before they could get her other arm clamped in, but her foot only grazed his leg before the Dunmer’s two hands brought her arm down and snapped the cuff closed.

In frustration and rage, Siari kept kicking out, the hair the Breton had pulled out of her ponytail bouncing in her face. But the two took a step back, out of her range, and she was forced to give up her struggle after realizing these clamps couldn’t be pulled open no matter how hard she tried.

What in Oblivion were these two doing? Didn’t they know who she was? She was the _Listener_ for Talos’ sake! Did they have any idea who they were fucking with? Any idea what kind of things she could call down on these idiots? How dared they?!

“No sense strugglin’, ya little ankle-biter,” the Breton grunted, standing doubled over. Oh yeah, Siari had given him a nice knee straight in the pisser. “This’ll be over in a second if you tell us what we need to know.” A small bit of satisfaction mixed with her fury and indignation as he added with a pained face, “Phooah. Little daedra scamp got me in the nads.”

She sure had. She hoped it hurt.

Now it was the Dunmer who spoke to her, from a safe distance, the cowards. “You were sent to kill Mjoll, weren’t you?”

How in Oblivion was this their business? And did they really expect her to blab? Brotherhood assassins never gave away the names of their marks, or their contractors. She kept silent, breathing hard in anger, pulling herself back as far from these bastards as she could.

“Don’t bother denyin’,” the Breton said, sadly no longer looking very hurt from the knee. He was going to get a lot more than that the second she was out of this chair. “What you’re gonna do, dolly girl, is write down the name of your contractor. That’s all we want, then you can go.”

‘Dolly girl’? She was the _Listener_ , not a ‘dolly girl’. The nerve these two had! She wanted to open her mouth and scream at them, hurl every obscenity she could at their faces, all the most rotten names and the vilest threats, but she couldn’t. All she could do was glare at them and think of ways she would hurt them as soon as she got free.

“Don’t make this any ‘arder ‘n it’s gotta be, lass.” The bald bastard had the gall to actually sound disappointed in her. Siari felt her teeth gnash as she burned up with anger. “The contractor for the Mjoll killin’. Just one name.”

Go sit on Mehrunes Dagon’s red hot poker, you whoresons.

The thought had only finished forming in her head when a blow struck her hard across the face, first exploding with pain where the fist had hit her, and then a smaller flash of hurt where she banged the back of her head into the chair. Her world spun and her vision doubled, then returned to normal before becoming troubled with tears.

They hit her. These crazy rotters had dared to _hit her_. They had hit _the Listener_. She would eat their souls when she got free.

“Come on, girl. Don’t make me do this,” she heard the Breton say. “You’re breakin’ my ‘eart.”

She was going to break a whole lot more the second she was out of this Nine-damned chair. Pain began to pound in her cheekbone even as tears streaked down them, warm and wet on her skin. Fuck this city. Fuck this city for always turning her into that little girl again. She wanted nothing more than to see this entire place burned to the ground.

She felt the roughness of a piece of paper as it was slid under her hand, and then the greasy texture of a piece of charcoal inserted between her fingers.

“Go on. Write it down, ‘s all we ask.”

“Delvin. Can I talk to you for a second?”

It was the Dunmer, of all people, who called this method into question. Good call. For that, she’d kill him last.

“What, mate?”

They stepped away from her to converse in private. Siari tried hard to hear what they were saying, there could always be something she could use against them, but their voices were so low and quiet she couldn’t make out a word. From their body language, she deducted that the Dunmer objected to beating a manacled sixteen-year-old girl. At least one of them did. Siari kinda felt bad – she’d rather loved hating him and it stank to realize he wasn’t that bad a sort.

“Hello. You mind if I take this little bitch with me after you’re done?”

What in Oblivion…

The dull-witted Redguard girl was there again, her hands behind her head, and behind him, with what was clearly a weapon at her back, stood a Nord in his late twenties – it was hard to tell with the low, flickering lights – although his long hair and light beard had already gone grey. Had she seen this guy before? She couldn’t recall. But he terrified her, much more than these Guild stooges did. And he came closer before the thieves could, so close he was within two metres of her.

“An ‘oo the fuck’re you then, twatwaffle?” The Breton asked, looking pretty angry. “You fuckin’ bonkers, mate, forcin’ your way in ‘ere?”

The other man was much calmer, saying, “I don’t give a shit what you want with this little murdering rat. All I’m telling you, and I’m not asking, is that when you’re done with her, she comes with me. Alive, and still aware of her surroundings.”

Siari broke her head trying to think who this guy could be, but her growing fear didn’t make it easy. Her belly ached and her mouth was cork dry. He definitely knew who she was, and he definitely sounded like he had a score to settle, and not a pleasant one.

She pulled the manacles to get the attention of the Thieves, but they were too concentrated on the strange Nord to free her. And the man terrified her. She hoped those thieves wouldn’t be stupid enough to just drop her in the lap of this obvious lunatic.

“As if we’re just going to have her over to some half-baked snow-eater we don’t know.” Siari breathed a sigh of relief, the pain in her cheek all but forgotten. This guy could still slaughter these two, but at least they weren’t just going to let him take her. “Turn around while you still can, fur frotter.”

Her heart pounding in her chest and her cheek, Siari awaited his answer.

“Look,” he said, still sounding calm, but Siari could tell there was hatred simmering beneath the surface. “I’ve got some very personal business to discuss with this little backstabber. Nothing that concerns you.” He took the dagger off the back of the dim-witted Redguard girl. “You go ahead and… do whatever it is you want to do to her, all I’m saying is, turn her over to me when you’re done or else.”

Was this a loose end she’d left untied? A family member of a previous mark? Whatever it was, this man was clearly out for revenge, and if these thieves handed her over, she’d be defenceless in the chair. Mephala, no, don’t let this happen.

Thankfully, the Breton chuckled. “Look at that. This dunghead comes to threaten us in our own ‘ome. In’t that adorable?” Meanwhile, the Dunmer shooed the Redguard girl out the door. Siari took everything back she’d said about these two. They were the only ones who stood between her and this vengeful Nord with the big axe at his belt.

“You’re right,” the Nord conceded. Hope flared up in Siari’s chest as her mind fooled her into thinking he just might leave. But that hope was dashed instantly, replaced by more fear. She strained against the manacles, but they were forged steel, and there was no way she’d be able to break them. The knot in her belly became harder and more painful.

“That wasn’t very corteous of me,” the Nord went on. “Let me rephrase. My business with her is completely separate from yours. And I’d sincerely appreciate it if, when your business is concluded, you let me take her with me. None of it will come back on you, I guarantee it.”

The Dunmer looked back at her, briefly, trying to gauge if she knew the guy, but she didn’t. Hadn’t seen him before in her life. When he looked back at the Nord, Siari realized he was racking his own brain to place the man. What, so he did know him? Or at least thought he did? What was going on here? Sweat ran down her forehead.

“Well mate,” Delvin went on, not racking his brains at all, “Your business with her isn’t our business either. An’ that’s why we feel no need to ‘elp you. So bugger off to wherever you came from an’ we won’t rob you, your family, an’ your little dog blind over the comin’ months.” Shit, the guy sure wasn’t afraid. “An’ don’t think that axe scares us. We’re thieves, an’ your on our turf. We know this place like the back of our ‘ands. You’d blunder into ten traps before you’d even get close to us.

True, but if they did run, she’d be at the mercy of this creepy bastard. Not that there would be any mercy. Siari prayed to the Night Mother to please, don’t let them run. This guy had horrible plans for her, she was certain of it now.

But everyone stayed where they were.

“Like I said,” the crazy fucker told them. “We got off on the wrong foot due to my overeagerness, but I’m not here for violence. I’m asking for a favour. “His dagger pointed at Siari’s forehead, he said, “Her. That’s all I ask. Doesn’t cost you a thing, doesn’t take any effort. All you have to do is let me take her with me after you’re done.”

_Please don’t let him take me please please_

“An’ I’m tellin’ you that ain’t happenin’.”

The axe lunatic approached Siari, and she felt herself pulling away from him, even though his hands were empty. She knew those two thieves would never be able to stop him if he intended to hurt or kill her. She closed her eyes and prayed to Sithis for help, but it remained silent in her head.

“I just want to talk, is all,” the man said when she reopened her eyes. “Look, how ‘bout I help you with your interrogation? Because that’s clearly what you’re doing.”

She threw a pleading glance at Falnas, the Dunmer. If this guy was going to ‘help’ with the interrogation, she’d got a lot more than just a few whacks to the face. This bastard was going to kill her, she knew it. If she didn’t work the pity angle now, this could end very badly for her. The only thing she could do was look so scared and vulnerable that the two thieves wouldn’t have the heart to give her up.

The axe man came closer and so did the thieves. Siari’s heart pounded in her chest. She was so close to these people, who all wanted to do her harm, and caught in a chair, shackled to the armrests. She felt her lower jaw start to tremble.

“I’m sure we don’t need your ‘elp mate,” the Breton said.

Oh Sithis she was so out of control, so resigned to the terrified wait, clamped to a chair, unable to move, speak or act. It only made the feeling of panic grow.

“Please, allow me,” she heard the Nord say. Oh Sithis protect her, here it came. “So, little throatcutter,” he said to her, his breath on her cheek even as she recoiled from him as far as she could. He smelled… somehow beastly. “You don’t look like I’d imagined. Not that that will make me think twice.” And with a little chuckle, he added, “And you probably don’t know who I am, do you?”

She didn’t, but couldn’t say so.

“I’ve been looking for you though,” he said as he kneeled by her. “Came all the way from Jorrvaskr to find you.”

Oh no.

Oh no, no. No, no, no.

Siari’s breath stalled in her throat and her stomach contracted so hard it became a painful stone in her belly. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The three people she’d killed, this was one of their group. Oh no, no, no. Please Sithis don’t let this be real. She was completely at his mercy, and the things he’d do to her would be terrifying beyond words. _Sithis, Night Mother, anyone, help me,_ she begged silently. Fresh tears burned in her eyes though they didn’t fall. But SIari knew she’d spill plenty more in the coming hours if he got his way. She felt her breath come in broken gasps as panic took hold of her.

“ _That_ turns you white, doesn’t it?” the man snarled at her. “You know what happened at Jorrvaskr, don’t you? What you did?”

Sithis Sithis no, no, _no_! She couldn’t scream, couldn’t try to reason, couldn’t even beg for her life although she wanted nothing more. There had to be a way, there had to be something, someone that would save her, please, _anyone_.

“Their names were Njada, Ria and Kodlak,” she heard the man growl, the fury in his voice now coming to the surface. “Njada was difficult and petty, but that was because she felt ignored and passed over. Kodlak was a wise, proud man who tried his best, all his life, to keep the Companions honourable, and on the path of right.” Siari didn’t care about her nameless victims, wasn’t interested in who they had been. The only thing in her mind was begging quietly to anyone or anything that would hear, to spare her this fate. “And Ria… Ria was a hard-working jewel of a girl, who was going to do great things… You’ve taken all that away from them, but I want you to know who they were. People, not just names on a list.”

That’s all they had ever been to Siari and all they would ever be. Why he tried to play on her emotions was a riddle, but she could only think of her own life and her own fear right now.

“And they bled to death, or got stabbed through the heart just because you thought it was _just a job._ ”

_Sithis save me someone do something_

“Mate,” she heard the Breton say, “I dunno what ‘appened at Jorrvaskr, but you clearly aren’t thinkin’ straight right now. How ‘bout we take a second to calm down an’ clear all this up, yeah?”

“I don’t need a second.” She felt his breath on her face again as he threatened, “You murdered my friends, innocent people, you dirty shit stain, and I’m going to remember it for the rest of your short, pain-filled life.”

_Oh please no, no, no, no._

“You’re interrogating her, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Dunmer answered, “but – ”

“Let me give you a hand,” the man said, evil cheer in his voice.

Siari felt his fingers being taken in his hand – she shuddered at the touch – and pushed down hard on the wood of the armrest. When she opened her eyes, she saw the knife edge hanging over her little finger like a headsman’s axe.

_He wouldn’t oh Aedra help me he wouldn’t he’s just trying to frighten me he’s just –_

As she watched, the knife edge came down, and the next moment, she heard herself let out a horrible, screeching scream as she felt the knife first cut through the skin, and then crush the bone of her little finger, _crack-crack-crunching_ through it and taking it off. Her feet kicked and her head bucked out of control, banging against the back of the chair as the world was nothing but pain.

_My finger! My finger my finger he’s cut my finger off! Help help my finger my finger I don’t want to die I don’t want to die_

Warmth washed between her legs and across her thighs as she lost all control over herself and her body. She felt her bladder drain, emptying itself in her breeches. She was that little girl again, would always be that little girl.

Would die as that little girl.

“What the fuck, mate?” she heard the Breton shout, her vision blinded by tears. Her face was completely wet with them. The stump of her little finger pounded in pain as she felt blood slicken the armrest under her hand. “You lost your fuckin’ mind? This isn’t a fuckin’ torture chamber!”

Through her tears, she saw the thief give the Nord pig bastard a hard push. She hoped he’d fall on his own knife, but they were vain hopes. Her finger, he’d cut off her _finger_.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she saw the Nord butcher hold up her finger. Her finger, her daedra-damned finger, a piece of her, cut off her hand. She felt dizzy and nauseous as she saw it, something that used to be part of her now detached from the rest of her. Seeing it so far away and no longer alive, a red stump at the end with the white of the bone visible in the middle, made her stomach turn.

The one time she’d seen something similar, she hadn’t had the time to realize it had been a part of her body.

“See this?” the Nord shouted as he held up the piece of her. “This is only the beginning.”

And before Siari’s eyes, he threw the once-alive, once-part-of-her piece through the air, making it spin end over end before hitting the water.

Siari couldn’t contain the wail that forced itself out of her lungs and tongueless mouth as she saw her finger disappear in the water, sinking down to mix with the shit and piss of the inhabitants of this rotten city. It was _her_ finger, a piece of _her_ body, and now it was gone, forever, like that other piece she’d lost so long ago.

“You’re fuckin’ mad’s what you are,” she heard the Breton yell at the Nord. He went on with a furious tirade of curses, but Siari no longer listened, she just sat staring at the ripples in the water, aware that she was rocking back and forth but unable to stop.

“Hey.”

The ripples in the water slowly flattened, until they were gone.

 _“Hey._ Look at me.”

Reflexively, her eyes went to the Dunmer sitting beside her, and she knew that if she didn’t save herself now, she was doomed. She looked at him with the most pleading, most despairing eyes she could make. Oh please, please, please let this be one more chance.

She felt his hand on the manacle and on hers, far less horrible than the Nord’s. “Was it her? The contract? Was it Maven?”

For a moment, Siari couldn’t make sense of his words.

“Come on,” he insisted, “we don’t have much time. Was it her?”

Siari knew the name. Maven Black-briar, some influential rich bitch that owned the biggest brewery in Riften. She had no Nine-damned idea who it had been that wanted the blonde woman murdered, but these guys wanted a name, and she wanted out of here, more than anything. And she didn’t give a damn who’d given her the contract or what these guys wanted to hear, but they wanted a name, and the one they suggested was as good as any.

“Alright,” the Dunmer said. Seemed she’d done the smart thing by nodding. He shot a quick look at the arguing men, then clicked the manacles open. “Dive. There’s pipes that lead out, under the surface. Go, do it now.”

She was going to live, or at least, have a chance to escape. The feeling she felt wasn’t new to her, but still unsettling. She didn’t like it, and wanted to just consider him a gullible fool, but she found out she couldn’t. What she felt was real gratitude, that inhibiting and misleading feeling that made people make stupid choices.

“ _Go._ ”

He was right, it was now or never. Ignoring the pain in her finger (it was surprisingly easy to do), she propelled herself off the chair and off the walkway, her enchanted boots sending her through the air in a long dive. She went into the water, taking care to keep her mouth closed, the cold feeling as if it was going to crush her flat.

She risked opening her eyes, but couldn’t see anything in the dirty, stinking water, and quickly closed them again, pushing herself forward and downward against the water, hoping to find some kind of pipe or opening that would let her escape. Resurfacing was suicide.

Behind her, she heard the sound of the water surface breaking, muffled in her ears. Fuck, he’d jumped after her. Her hands flailed around, finding nothing but water, and her lungs began to ache for air. She set her teeth and tried to ignore the urge to open her mouth and inhale, and the next moment her fingers touched the stone curve that was unmistakably the rim of a pipe.

Grabbing onto it, she pulled herself inside, to freedom.

Her feeling of relief was short-lived as fingers closed roughly around her ankle. Oh fuck, he’d found her. Let go, let go, let _go_. She made her other foot shoot out, first hitting nothing but water, but her second kick met resistance, and she heard the noise of a pained voice, dull and distorted by the water, and the hand let go.

Kicking a few more times, both to propel herself and to deter her pursuer, Siari pulled herself through the pipe, her lungs about to burst. Thankfully, it wasn’t very long, and her fingers soon closed around the edge on the other side.

The last of the air in her mouth escaped in a string of bubbles as she kicked frantically to get back to the surface, and just as her body was about to take over and fill her lungs with the shit water, her fingers felt air on their tips, and the next moment, she burst through the surface of the water, her lungs pulling themselves open to let the stinking, putrid, wonderful air in. Her arms flailed around, splashing up water around her, the pain in the stump of her finger forgotten.

She was alive! She had escaped and she was _alive_! Minus one finger, the fucking maniac would pay for that, but she was _alive_!

She had to get out of here though, because there was no doubt the bastard would pursue, and she did, hoisting herself up on a walkway and running until she saw light. Once, a dart zipped past her, but she was moving so fast it struck a wall, but apart from that, she didn’t trigger a single trap (which she didn’t doubt there were), and found herself at the mouth of a pipe that let semi-clean water run into the canal around the city. On either side were tall, dark grey stone walls, with rickety wooden walkways constructed against them to provide access to the houses of the unfortunates, who could afford nothing more than a hole in the wall above the stink canal.

At least they didn’t live in an orphanage.

It was dusk already, and all the colours were fading to a dark grey-blue. She wanted nothing more than to get out of this city. Astrid would have some explaining to do when she got back to Sanctuary. Siari sure hoped she didn’t know what these guys had been planning, and she _certainly_ hoped she didn’t have anything to do with this maniac showing up.

She sat on the wooden walkway at the top of the canal, her legs hanging over the side, thinking. It couldn’t be, Astrid wouldn’t send this torture-happy madman to her. Sure, she’d been unpredictable, but sending someone to kill her? No, that wasn’t possible. Besides, the crazy fuck was from Jorrvaskr, so he’d probably just tracked her down. Just… very slowly, apparently.

Whatever the case, that explanation made more sense than the alternative, that Astrid had somehow – ”

“Hey, girl. Are you alright? Did you fall in?”

Argh dammit!

She turned her head and saw a guardsman standing over her, his hands in his sides. She couldn’t see his face with the helmet, but from his voice, she figured he was around thirty. She made a weary but friendly face and held up a hand to show she was alright.

“You’re soaking wet, where do you live?”

She just shook her head. Nowhere, leave me alone.

“What’s wrong, can’t speak?”

Another head shake.

“Oh. Well, come on,” the guard said, kneeling next to her. “I’ll take you to the barracks, put you in front of a warm fire, so you can dry a bit at least.”

She refused, trying to look as friendly as possible when she did.

He sighed. “Look, I don’t care if you’re one of those thieves. You’re going to freeze like this. Just come on, let me take you to the barracks, no questions asked, promised.”

No, no, no. She wasn’t going to the barracks, she wasn’t getting warm, she wasn’t coming with this guy. It was too dangerous, and it was asking for trouble. He didn’t seem to be a creep or anything, but still, no. Sitting in the barracks with all the guard there, if someone made her, she’d never be able to escape. No.

He took her hand and she pulled it away. “I’m not asking,” he told her. “I wouldn’t feel right about leaving you here like this, wet and cold.” When he saw the blood on his glove, her immediately grew concerned. “Are you hurt? Look I don’t care what happened to you, but you need your injuries taken care of.” He took off his helmet and placed it on the ground next to her, revealing his sharp but pleasant face, short sand-coloured hair and goatee. “Look, if it helps, I’m not some masked murderer. Now, come on. It doesn’t have to be all evening, just until you’ve dried up a bit.”

He wasn’t a masked murderer, but that didn’t make two of them.

His fingers closed around her wrist again, and when she tried to pull free, he didn’t let go. “I insist, alright? I’m not leaving you like this. Either let me walk you home or come with me to the barracks. Come on.”

He made to help her up, but as he pulled, Siari decided she’d had enough. She snatched up the guard’s helmet with her free hand and swung it hard, hitting him in the side of the head with such force that his legs gave out and he went to the ground. Before he could get his wits back, Siari had already climbed on top of him, sitting straddled on his back. One hand grabbed the hair by his forehead, the other went for the knife behind her back, placing it on his throat. He was four times as strong as she was, but the edge of a knife at one’s throat makes strength useless.

“No, please,” he begged. “Why? What have I done?”

 _You haven’t done anything, but others have. Those thieves cuffed me and hit me. That crazy bastard cut off my finger while I was defenceless. They all saw me cry and snotter and piss myself. I can’t touch those people now, but you, you I can touch. No, you haven’t done anything, but you’re the only one I_ can _hurt right now, so you’re paying for the rest._

“Please, no.” he wailed on. “I have children, _please_.”

 _Should have left it alone_.

She drew the knife over his throat, opening him up. He let out a short squeal before his larynx too was severed and he could only die in silence, as she lived. Blood ejaculated from his throat in red streams, pulsating with his heart. In its death throes, his body moved and shifted under her and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of another dying person. His larynx severed, he could do no more than gurgle as the blood ran into his windpipe and his lungs, making a sound like a child sucking in the last of his drink through a straw. He moved for a few more seconds as his arteries pumped themselves dry, and then, in a pool of blood, he lay still.

Siari kept her eyes closed and the pain, humiliation and shame of the Ratway gradually became bearable.

“Please, I’m begging you, don’t do this.”

Siari’s eyes snapped open and under her was the guard, alive and moving, his hair in her fist and her knife at his throat.

What had just happened? This illusion? Had it just been a fantasy? A way for her to enjoy the murder before committing it? It didn’t matter, now she’d get to have twice the release.

“I have children,” he pleaded through his tears. “Elsa and Mervan. They’re two and four. They’ll be orphans. I don’t care what you do to me, just don’t do this to them.”

Siari felt her hand, about to draw the knife across his throat, suddenly freeze. She didn’t know what was going on, but at the same time, she did. Orphans. She’d make orphans of this man’s children. Orphans like she had been. They’d go to the Orphanage, like Siari had. Grelod was dead, but they’d find someone else.

She couldn’t understand what kind of pain other people went through when she killed them, but this, this she could understand. And she remembered how it was, how it felt. And she knew she could never, ever put anyone through the thing she’d been through. All the other things, the dying and hurting people, were immaterial to her, as if they weren’t real, just things that happened to the scenery they called ‘other people’, but this, this she could relate to, this she could _imagine_ as something that actually _happened_ and didn’t just occurred to these not-really-existing ‘other people’.

It was this feeling again, this horrible, uncomfortable, crushing feeling of her own actions actually _mattering_ to others than herself. The scary feeling of not being able to kill and hurt freely because what she did, other people _felt_. The terrifying feeling of having to take responsibility and face the consequences of what she did.

And the breath-stopping realization that what she did unto others, others could also do unto her.

The guard still lay there, whimpering for his life, and Siari still felt the urge to enjoy his death and her power over him with every fibre of his being, but the fear that this might be a real person, and especially that his children were _real people_ , soon-to-be-orphans, like her, made her stay her hand.

She pulled the knife away from his throat, and with a quick snap of her elbow, knocked the pommel against the side of his head, then jumped up and ran, through the city, out the gates and onto the back of Shadowmere.

 


	42. Roë: Beyond Death

  **ROË**

**Beyond Death**

**The Soul Cairn**

It felt like they walked in the land of the dead, but this was something far worse. It was a land of captured souls, bound forever to this place as immaterial, forlorn strands of fog, made up of pale purple unlight. And yet, even in this place, where these wretches floated on the intangible wind, where they occasionally let muted wails and howls come from miles and miles away and yet right next to them, even here, the horror and lifelessness couldn’t touch Roë. She walked next to Serana, enjoying the feeling of being in love. She’d forgotten what it felt like to actually enjoy a feeling.

Every time she sneaked a look at Serana, she knew it wasn’t just her heart playing tricks on her. Even here, in this dark purple unlight, she was the most beautiful woman Roë had ever seen, and the only one she wanted to stay with forever. She’d follow her to the ends of Nirn, and even beyond, as she was doing now.

“You alright?” Serana asked, though she’d been silent the entire walk. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

Roë smiled at her. “I’m fine, Serana. Great, even. Coming to terms with a few things, you could say.”

“Oh,” Serana said cheerfully, the stifling and numbing otherness of this world not able to take away the positive tone in her voice entirely. “That’s good to hear. Wanna share?”

“Not just yet. But I’m just… I don’t know, making things a bit easier for myself.” She’d play her cards close until she was certain that Serana felt likewise, although she liked to think the odds were pretty high, she’d expressed quite a lot of affection towards her already, and Roë guessed that meant a lot for someone as down-to-earth as Serana.

“I’m glad you are,” Serana said. “Told you it wasn’t all that bad?”

“Yeah.” It was all that bad, but without this, she wouldn’t have met Serana.

They were walking towards the castle-like structure, that looked from a distance as if it was erected from pure blackness.

“Aren’t you uh, I don’t know,” Roë asked, “a bit apprehensive towards seeing your mother?”

Serana turned her head, still walking. “No. Why?”

“Well, it’s been years and years since you’ve seen her?”

Serana laughed, her cheer making the unlight around them a little less depressing. “It’s only been a matter of a few weeks to me, Roë.”

“Yes, but, to her…?”

“Mm. I don’t think things have changed a lot. Mother was always… less ambitious than my father was. I assume that’s why she fled the Castle too.”

“I don’t think you’ve told me her name yet?”

Serana paused for a moment. “Mmno, I don’t think I have.” She resumed walking. “Well, unless she’s changed her name for some reason, it’s still Valerica. But… I don’t think of her as that, just… mother.”

“Mm. Same for me. When people ask me about Roëlaï, I keep having to stop and go, ‘who? oh right, my mom’. Heh.”

With a grin, Serana said, “Exactly.”

While they talked, Roë noticed the strange horse’s skull lying in the vapour by her feet. It seemed to glow somehow. But perhaps it was just a trick of her mind, because the glow was gone as soon as she’d noticed it.

“Over there,” Serana warned, pointing ahead. “Skeletons.”

Roë really wasn’t keen on fighting anything in this horrible realm, but the rickety bone men already shambled towards them, some holding stone-like things they’d picked up somewhere, others having their finger bones hooked into claws, and one of them was even holding his left humerus in his right hand to use as a weapon. The bones weren’t attached physically, they were just… suspended in the air to form human skeletons, their colour no longer white, but like polished grey stone.

“Do we have to do this?”

“M-hm,” Serana merely said, raising her hand. “I wouldn’t transform here either if I were you. The energies you might absorb during your attacks is probably… not very healthy, even for us dead girls.”

“I’ll… just chop them apart old-style,” Roë said, her eyes fixed on the skeletons, that moved less like shambling corpses and more like jerky, twitchy marionettes. Pin pricks of dark blue unlight glowed in their eye sockets. Because just spastic skeletons weren’t creepy enough on their own.

“They’re just bones,” Serana said calmly, noticing Roë’s nervousness. “They won’t be a problem unless you allow them to be.”

“Right.” But still, what if she was injured in this realm? Would the energies get in her bloodstream somehow? Even for something that was no longer alive, this could be dangerous. This realm didn’t play by the rules she was used to. She drew her shortsword, aware that it was a far from ideal weapon against the hard, lifeless bones of the skeletons. No arteries to slash, no tendons to sever, no vitals to stab. It would have to do.

Serana would have some trouble too. Icicles and fans of flames wouldn’t hurt these things much. But as she said, “Come on, let’s show them not to mess with nobility,” and conjured up not an icicle, but a solid chunk of ice, Roë realized Serana would have no problem whatsoever.

The big rock of ice shot away, smacking into the skull of the first skeleton, batting it clean off, the lower jaw knocked loose. The rest of it just fell down in a heap.

“Where’s a comedy xylophone sound when you need one?” Serana grunted, launching another ice ball. This one struck the skeleton holding his own arm in the chest, sending it flying apart.

They were close enough now, and Roë took a swing at the closest one, hacking its skull off the vertebrae and sending it to the ground in a clattering of loose bones.

Serana ducked under a claw swipe and with a hard kick, sent the skeleton staggering back, after which Roë gave it a back-handed smack with the pommel of her sword, her vampiric strength making the blow powerful enough to cave in the cranium, and this skeleton, too, fell over and apart. Another ice ball knocked another skeleton apart, and the last one got its skull knocked off by a roundhouse kick from Roë.

“Hardly broke a sweat,” Serana remarked, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves.

“Cocky,” Roë said with a grin. “Want a victory pose from me too?”

“Ooh, sure, just pump your fist, then windmill your sword above your head a few times, how’s that?”

“Won’t make an impression with this puny thing. I’d need something more massive.”

“Well, at any rate,” Serana said, “Not all fights have to be tense and suspenseful nail-biters.”

“I’d actually prefer if none of them were,” Roë simply said.

“Not how life works, I’m afraid. Or well, unlife.” Absently, she kicked one of the skulls away, sending it bopping along the surface of this realm. It looked as if every collection of fallen bones had a barely-visible, twisted miasma hanging above it. It would have made Roë shudder if she still could.

Meanwhile, the castle-like structure had come a lot closer, its jagged walls and crumbled turrets clearly distinguishable, even though vapour still obscured its base.

On they walked, with no major events this time, except the occasional barely audible wail or sigh that brushed past them in a streamer of icy mist.

Before long, they found themselves at the curious structure. It was shaped like a castle ruin, but there were no gardens, no moat, no flags or banners, nothing except the cold, dark blocks of whatever otherworldly substance that had been used to build it. It was just… empty walls.

“Desperately needs a good decorator,” Serana remarked wryly, echoing Roë’s thoughts.

They were standing right at the main gate, well, the main arch really, because there was no gate or portcullis. From what they could see, it led into a courtyard, equally barren as the rest. The ground had no tiles or flagstones, it was just this same dark purple substance that was everywhere, this sand-like dust. It made it look as if this was a ruin being swallowed by this dark purple desert. Maybe it was.

“Standing in front of it isn’t gonna get us anywhere,” Serana said at length, sounding like she needed to overcome a mental threshold. “Let’s go inside, see my mother.”

“Right behind you,” Roë could only say.

More of the same in the courtyard. Just walls surrounding them, with a dark structure that looked like a fountain in the middle, if all fountains looked like dark, otherworldly, dry receptacles filled with nothing but dark purple dust.

On their right-hand side stood something more than just a blind, crumbling wall. It wasn’t _much_ more, but it was something at least. The walls were higher there, and they formed a small chapel-like construction, with a single, deep niche at the base. When they approached, they saw it wasn’t a niche, but an actual entrance.

Serana made to walk in, holding out one hand in front of her, but her hand was knocked back by an unseen force.

“Ow,” she muttered, rubbing her fingertips. “Son of a beesting.”

“Some kind of barrier?”

“Seems so…”

When they looked more closely, they could just barely perceive a slowly shifting barrier of faint light, that blocked the entrance to the little building.

“Any idea how we’ll get in there?” Roë asked.

“Mmmno. It’s a pretty powerful barrier from the looks of it.” And massaging her fingertips, she added with a little grin, “and from the feels of it.”

“That’s… problematic. No fancy magicka to dispel it?”

With a grin, Serana said, “I take offence at your discounting of my flabbergasting command of ethereal forces as ‘fancy magicka’.”

“Forgive me, all-powerful sorceress.”

Serana put her hands in her sides and looked up at the building in front of them. “Come on, churlish and unmagickal bodyguard, maybe there’s a way around.” She walked away, saying, “I’m going to go have a look around.”

It was then that Roë saw a face suddenly appear in the darkness of the doorway. “Wah!” she jumped, taking a surprised step back.

The face immediately scrunched up into a sour frown. “I may be old, but not old enough to make people recoil in horror.”

The person looked normal, well, normal enough to be part of Roë and Serana’s world at least, although this one too, had the pallor and blazing eyes of the Vampire noble. And though her features were rather sharp and more narrow, she bore a striking resemblance to Serana, albeit less accessible and more regal and aloof. She even wore a similar outfit though hers was more decorated, its trims especially were embroidered with intricate designs.

“Oh, uh, sorry, I just… you startled me.”

“Skittishness isn’t a very laudable quality in a Vampire noble, dear,” the woman scolded. “So tell me, why is a Vampire not of our blood in the presence of my daughter?”

“Oh, uh,” Roë stammered, “I’m just her bodyguard.” She hoped she wasn’t ‘just’ that, but this explanation would have to do.

Her face still sour, Serana’s mother pointed out, “I’m not sure my daughter needs any protection. And I assume you’re running errands for my wonderful husband?”

“Lady Valerica,” Roë said, “I just follow Serana. If she decides her father’s requests are worth following – ”

She snorted. “Harkon doesn’t make _requests_ , dear. Never has, and I don’t think the years have been kind to his domineering nature.”

Maybe not the best idea to go against this woman, but still, Roë said, “He’s been nothing but civil… if a bit demanding?”

“Oh I’m sure he has been. But make no mistake, refusal was never an option.”

Serana had closed the distance back to the doorway, and she greeted her mother with a reserved, “Mother.”

“Yes, here you are then,” Valerica turned to her daughter. “Took you quite a while. Very little to do around here, you know.”

“You weren’t exactly easy to find.”

“That was the whole idea, silly girl. If I were, your kind and caring father might have gotten his hands on this.” Her hand emerged from the darkness, holding the second Elder Scroll. Harkon had been right about that at least. “I had to flee here, to sacrifice everything to prevent my darling husband from completing the prophecy.”

“But why?” Roë dared to ask. “I thought all Vampires were receptive to the idea of ending the tyranny of the Sun?”

“Only the callous,” Valerica said, “or they who do not realize that the ritual comes at a price.”

“What price, mother?”

“Serana, my dear. The Elder Scrolls are but the means to an end. I fled with two of them. One I gave to you, the Elder Scroll of the Sun, which I assume you now know speaks of Auriel and his arcane Bow. This one, the Elder Scroll of Blood, I kept with me. It speaks of how the daughter of Coldharbour will blind the eye of the Dragon.”

“So that’s either you or I, then?” Serana asked with her arms crossed, her expression curious. “Mentioned in an Elder Scroll. Now I feel flattered.”

“Pardon me,” Roë asked, “but what’s a Daughter of Coldharbour?”

Serana tried to block the question by saying, “It’s just a name – ” but Valerica cut her off. “My daughter and I were human once. Devout followers of Molag Bal. And there is a tradition, on his summoning day, that – ”

“Mother.”

“Hush dear, there is no shame in the truth. There is a tradition that when Lord Molag Bal is summoned, all females be offered to him. It’s a ritual that involves things more terrible than you can imagine. Very few survive the ordeal.”

Serana bit her lip and looked away. Knowing Molag Bal’s reputation, the ritual must have been gruesome in more ways than one. Dear Nine, poor Serana.

“Those who survive,” Valerica continued, pride clear in her voice, “emerge as pure-blooded Vampires. These are called the Daughters of Coldharbour. Serana and I are, as far as I know, the only ones still in existence.”

“And you both underwent this ritual willingly?”

Valerica chuckled. “You have much to learn about our ways, child. Being selected as an offering to Molag Bal is an immense honour. No one would willingly turn their back on such glory.”

“No one would _dare_ to,” Serana hissed, still looking away, her face bearing a mixture of pain and anger. The realization that the Daedric Prince had tortured, broken and brutally violated beautiful Serana, stabbed Roë in the heart. She tried not to let images of Serana, on her hands and knees, screaming and weeping, into her mind, but the more she tried, the more clear they became. It made her feel physically ill, something she never thought she’d still feel.

“The prophecy stipulates one more thing,” Valerica explained, unshaken and unmoved by her daughter’s anguish at the memories. “The ritual for the Tyranny of the Sun doesn’t require the _presence_ of a Daughter of Coldharbour. It requires her blood.”

“Oh,” Roë said, Serana still silent and looking away. “It’s not… that big a deal, is it? I’m sure either of you can spare – ”

“ _All_ of it.”

“… Oh.” That was something different entirely. “But… does Harkon know?”

“Child,” Valerica gave her a scolding look. “Why do you think I’m all the way out here? Why do you think I sealed Serana away?”

“Oh, so that was you…”

“It was. Harkon knows it all too well. And now so do you. Which means,” she crossed her arms defiantly, “You’d have quite a treasure on your hands if you play your cards right.”

That was true, Roë did feel like she had something extremely valuable, but not in the way Valerica meant. “What are you implying?”

I’m not implying, I’m _saying_ that you got your gift from Harkon – don’t try to fool me, I can tell – and he’s sent you not to keep Serana safe, but to make sure you’ll be able to reel her in when the moment comes. Harkon will not spare her. In his eye, she’ll be dying a glorious death for the good of all Vampires. And his, of course. So what has he promised you?”

“Promised?” Roë echoed. “Nothing. I’m here because Serana asked me to be, nothing more.”

Wearily, Serana said, still looking away, “That’s true, mother.”

“And using her blood for the ritual, if it kills her, that’s something I’d never allow to happen,” Roë said, meaning every word of it.

Valerica let out a haughty chuckle. “So pray tell, how exactly do you intend to complete the prophecy without the death of my daughter? Because her father will not permit you to abandon the mission he gave you.”

Roë shot a look at Serana. “Maybe we can just flee, Hide somewhere he can’t – ”

“He’ll find you, silly girl. You may be powerful, but you’re a newly-hatched chick in terms of life experience. He’s lived for thousands of years, and he’s got a thousand more to search for you. Nowhere on Nirn is safe, and this place can’t harbour all three of us. No amount of soul offerings would persuade the lords of this realm to allow that.”

“Is there anything you can do to help us?” Roë asked, despite her aversion to asking this snooty woman for help.

“I can tell you that it’s in your best interest to fulfil the prophecy partly. If you’re going to challenge my husband, only Auriel’s Bow can give you the power you need. It can work for Vampires, or in the right hands, against them.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Roë said. “I meant something more practical. Like coming with us.”

She shook her head. “I’m a Daughter of Coldharbour, like my own daughter. My presence on Tamriel is just as dangerous as Serana’s. And forgive me, but I’m not about to provide aid to someone who could betray me to Harkon so easily.”

“What makes you think I would – ”

“The Tyranny of the Sun, as you’ve probably gathered by now, is more than a way to shield us from its terrible rays. The Vampire who completes the ritual will gain powers that are, for all intents and purposes, limitless.” Her blazing eyes narrowed. “A fledgling like you, one of Harkon’s blood, would see the ritual as a chance at deification. I doubt you’d let something as insignificant as the death of myself or my daughter dissuade you.”

“Mother, please,” Serana suddenly interjected, her face livid. “Roë’s been the only one who’s actually been a friend to me. My father, I just found out, plans to wring me for the last drop of blood, and my mother, instead of standing up for me, sealed me in a cave for years and years while she cowered in this miserable pit of a world. And even now, she refuses to come out of her hidey-hole because she’s not entirely convinced that my friend, someone I vouch for, can be trusted.”

Valerica crossed her arms and made a prissy face. “I don’t know this person by hair nor plume. You can’t expect me to – ”

“Oh Mother, put a sock in it,” Serana lashed out. “Without Roë, I’d still be in that sarcophagus, or worse, I’d have been exhumed by Vampire hunters or any of the conniving traitors that my father lets traipse around his court. She never wanted to be a part of this, she’s not one of those schemers like all of you are.”

Despite Serana’s anger, it made Roë happy to hear Serana stand up for her.

“Everything I did,” Valerica hissed, “I did for you! So you could be – ”

“So I could be what?” Serana shouted. “You gave me to Molag Bal, you sealed me away for centuries, for my own good?”

“So you could be _safe_ , and _powerful_!” Valerica snapped back.

Serana stood glaring at her mother for a few more moments, then said, “Forget it. We’ll do this without you.” She held out her hand. “You gonna give us the Elder Scroll at least?”

“Yes, I will,” Valerica said, still glaring. “I must warn you though. Its guardian will not let it go so easily.”

“Guardian?” Roë asked, thinking she’d been quiet for long enough.

“Durnehviir,” Valerica told Roë, giving her a disdainful look. “He guards this place for the Ideal Masters, and he guards its treasures. Including the Elder Scroll. He will not stand for its removal.”

“Who are the uh, Ideal Masters?” Roë asked, never having heard the name.

Valerica rolled her blazing eyes. “They are entities that reign over the Soul Cairn. I struck a deal with them to find refuge in this place, but they tricked me, trapping me inside this barrier along with the Elder Scroll. The Scroll can pass through, but I cannot. And I wouldn’t even if I could. The barrier also hides me from my husband’s scrying eyes.”

Roë had one more question. “There’s one thing I’m still a bit unclear about.”

Valerica raised an impatient eyebrow.

Roë ignored her snooty behaviour and asked, “If fulfilling the prophecy would make you divinely powerful, why haven’t you tried to fulfil it yourself?”

“Because, _child_ , fulfilling the prophecy means darkening the sun forever. It would be ideal for Vampires, but the living would be much less served. Harkon claims it would be a Vampiric utopia where we could walk out in the open and fear nothing, but he chooses to ignore the fact that darkening the sun would call so much attention to our kind, that the situation would be untenable. Armies would be raised, nations would unite, all to destroy Vampirekind.” She shook her head. “No, letting the prophecy come to fruition would be terrible for us in the long run. We must live in the shadows, as we always have. It’s the only way we’ve survived for millennia already.”

Looking away, Serana remarked, “That, or oblivious inside a sarcophagus.”

“It was for your own – ”

“Yes, yes. You said that already.” She held out her hand again. “The Scroll, mother.”

She nodded. “Be wary of Durnehviir. He is not some collection of shambling bones.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to deal with him,” Roë said confidently, even though she felt anything but. “Whatever he is.”

“Very well. Best of luck, my daughter,” Valerica said, holding one end of the Scroll out through the barrier.

Serana took it, and almost immediately, the sky darkened, and a distant rumbling could be heard.

“He comes,” Valerica said. “I can’t help from behind this barrier. You Bosmer, keep my daughter safe. You are responsible if anything happens to her.”

“I can take care of myself, mother,” Serana shouted over the wind that had suddenly appeared and intensified to a loud, howling gale, making their hair flap into their faces.

Roë looked on as a shape appeared in the darkened maelstrom of the sky, beating great and terrible wings. “Se… Serana. Durnehviir, it’s…”

“A dragon,” Serana completed. “We’ll have to clean out our toes to take this one on.”

The shape came closer, getting more and more immense as it did. There were actually dragons. They were actually real. All the power in the world couldn’t save you from a massive beast that could swallow you whole.

“Don’t be afraid, Roë,” Serana shouted at her, over the howling wind. “Stand your ground. We will win this.”

Yes, she had to believe they could. And she’d protect Serana to the death. She took out her shortsword and set her jaw as the enormous dragon landed, his wings sending up the dark purple dust-like material that covered the ground of the courtyard.

Rearing up, the dragon spread his wings and roared. Nine, he was as tall as a house when on all fours, now he was the height of a damn tower, four twisted horns making a mighty crest around his head.

“Outsiders,” the dragon roared in a voice so powerful Roë felt the sound waves butting her in the chest. “Not one more step. The Ideal Masters will not let you take what is theirs so easily.”

“Let us leave, dragon,” Serana shouted back, unafraid. Her courage made Roë’s fear diminish as well. “Or we will destroy you.”

“I cannot. The Ideal Masters do not allow me to let anyone leave with their property,” the dragon roared back. Was that reluctance Roë heard? “I must do my duty. Fight with honour, outsiders.”

Up he went, launching his enormous form into the blackened sky, then sharply banking, coming about for a dive.

“We have to bring him down,” Serana shouted. “If he stays in the air, it’s a stand-off. He’ll keep using his breath on us until we’re charred or frozen or whatever it is he does.”

“Well I only have a sword,” Roë yelled back. “Maybe your magic can help?”

“It’ll have to.”

The dragon swooped down on them, and Roë had to use all her willpower to keep her legs from running away. His massive maw, set with teeth as large as her forearm, opened and a blast of darkness rushed out, like a great cone of dark, viscous nothing.

Roë dived out of the way, but as the dragon let his terrible breath sweep over the ground, it caught her prone form, washing over her. She tried to shield herself with her hands and legs, rolling into a ball, but the blast hit her full-on, and it was incredibly cold. It felt as if her energy was simply hammered out of her, as if all her muscles were paralyzed, her body going completely limp.

Then the dragon passed over her and climbed again.

“Roë!” Serana shouted. “Roë are you alright?”

Strength slowly returned to her muscles, but they were shaking and convulsing, the dark energy of the dragon’s breath taking away their responsiveness. “I’m… I’m fine,” Roë shouted with clattering teeth, even though she didn’t feel fine at all. She got to her feet, still shaking, her shortsword loose in her trembling grip. “Just can’t… can’t take much more… of those.”

“Hold on. I got him in the wing once. A few more and it’ll hurt too much to fly.”

Looking up, Roë indeed saw a viciously sharp icicle imbedded in the dragon’s left wing. She staggered over to Serana, determined to take refuge behind the ward she’d protected herself with.

“Stay close,” Serana ordered. “The ward can shield us both.”

The dragon came down again and more terrible dark washed from his maw, but this time, the brunt of the attack was thrown aside by the ward Serana threw up, Roë shielding herself behind it. The dragon passed again and Serana launched another sharp ice shard, this time catching the beast in the other wing. Strangely, even though he didn’t actually have any wing membranes, just the bone structure, he still flew. In fact, the entire dragon seemed to defy all natural laws, his skin cracked and decayed, bones even protruding at some points. How long had this creature languished in this realm?

“Rrgh, he’s a stubborn one,” Serana snarled, looking up at the dragon, still flying even though both the wings were transfixed with icy shards.

“This place is cold, right?” Roë shouted over the howling wind, “So maybe the ice doesn’t have as much effect as it should.”

“Possible,” Serana yelled back. “Let me try something else.”

Again the dragon came plummeting down, and again Serana erected her ward in the nick of time, although she had trouble maintaining its strength this time, and the coldness came partly through, numbing them both with its diminished power. Serana, however, still had the strength to summon a roaring cone of fire, which she swept across the dragon’s belly and left wing.

This time, the magick had much more effect, and Durnehviir’s wing failed him, causing him to stall mid-climb and come back down, crashing into one of the walls of the castle like a burning meteor, chunks of wall and whirlwinds of dust flying through the air as he tumbled spectacularly across the ground.

“He’s down!” Serana shouted, doubled over. “Go! Get him! I need to get my strength back.”

Even though she was scared to death, Roë charged the ailing dragon at full speed, ignoring her shaking muscles, trying to clear the distance before he could regain his footing. But just as she reached him, the beast got back on his four legs and turned to face her. She skidded to a stop just in time to avoid a claw sweep powerful enough to turn her into guts, and then managed to dive out of the way of another breath attack, the wave of emptiness passing harmlessly by her.

The dragon tried to turn his head to hit her again, but as he did, he roared in pain as the bones protruding from his neck, broken in the fall, ground together, making him unable to turn his maw towards her.

It had to be now.

Throwing herself forward with all her strength, Roë leapt past the dragon’s head, dodged a blind swipe of his right claw and leapt onto his shoulder joint, thrusting her short sword down between its shoulder blades.

The beast roared, its head in the air, and she brought her weapon down again, this time feeling very clearly how the iron slid into the crack between two vertebrae and severed the nerves.

The roar silenced and the dragon’s head, abruptly, fell to the ground, sending up a puff of dust as it came down.

“Whooah,” Serana remarked, approaching as the wind died down. “That got ‘im.”

“I think so, yeah.” The fear and stress coming out of Roë’s body, combined with the dragon’s breath still giving her the shakes, made her lean on the beast’s body for support.

“That was some flashy action right there,” Serana said with a grin.

“Heh, it was, if I do say so myself. That breath weapon though…”

“Uh huh. Good thing we’re Vampires,” Serana said with a nod. “If we’d been humans, with living bodies, those energies would have killed us stone dead.”

Warmth suddenly heated up Roë’s hand as the dragon underneath it began to give off a strange light.

“What the…”

Roë stepped back, and they both watched how the dragon’s body first began to glow, so bright it made them squint, and then, as if it was paper in a fire, the dragon dissolved, its body disassembling into big flakes that floated upward, twisting and turning, until they simply glowed away, out of existence.

“That’s… quite a sight,” Serana remarked as the dragon was simply consumed into nothingness.

“You don’t have much time,” they heard Valerica’s voice, as if she were right next to them although she was a hundred metres away. “Durnehviir cannot be destroyed, only stopped for a short time. He will reform, and try to keep you from leaving the Cairn again. Go, before he returns.”

Serana only looked back at her mother and gave her a short nod. Then, the Scroll slung over her back, she said to Roë. “Come on, fearless dragon-slaying bodyguard. Let’s give this place the laugh.”

“Be glad to,” Roë said, her chest swelling with pride when she realized she had, actually, _slain a dragon_. Serana had helped, or even been crucial, but still. Holy cack, she’d slain a dragon!

“When you’re done feeling awesome,” Serana said with a grin, “how ‘bout you start running?”

And they did, though Roë had to walk at first as her muscles regained their strength and energy. Once she felt back to her old self, though, they ran, on and on through the dead realm of the Soul Cairn, their muscles, also dead, not feeling fatigue or lactic acid build-up, allowing them to sprint as fast as they could across the dead realm. They neither spoke nor looked back, and as they ran on, the dizzying steps back to the real world emerged from the mists on the horizon as a tiny tower of floating rocks climbing up to a brightly-lit hole in the dark purple sky.

“Just a little further,” Serana pointed out, not even out of breath. It was still a few kilometres, but they were in the last quarter of the run, definitely.

“Don’t jinx it,” Roë laughed. “You know what happens when you go ‘almost there’.”

“Pft,” Serana blew as she ran. “Then we kick his tail again. We did it once, right?”

They both knew they wouldn’t stand a chance the second time, with Serana’s magickal energies still low from all the double-casting, and Roë’s luck probably not about to grant her a second lucky broken dragon-neck.

Still, their luck held for now, and they ran on, clearing the last distance until the floating rocks were about a kilometre away.

“A little longer,” Serana said, “And we’re in the clear blue.”

But before Roë could answer something about ‘the blue’ no longer applying to them, the sky darkened again, the wind picking back up. “Ahhh, cack,” she cursed.

“We’re close!” Serana shouted, the floating rock staircase only a hundred metres away. “If we move fast before he arrives, we can – ”

But the dark form of the otherworldly dragon, flying down and taking up a perch on the rocks leading to their world, made it pointless for Serana to finish her sentence.

Oh, they were cacked now. “Come on!” Roë shouted at the world around them, slapping her fists into her thighs. “So close!”

“I would speak to you both, Qahnoarin.” The wind wasn’t howling now, just playing with their hair soundlessly.

“Kahna-what?” Roë asked.

“Sheesh, Roë,” Serana hissed. “The dragon wants to talk, don’t upset him. Let him talk, anything’s better than fighting again.”

“You are Qahnoarin,” the dragon explained. “Vanquisher. The ones who defeated me in battle. It is a title of the utmost honour.”

“Well, uh,” Roë answered, “You didn’t make it easy on us.”

“I am honoured to hear you say so,” the dragon said back. “I have no wish to fight you again, nor does my honour allow it.”

“Well that’s good,” Serana said from the corner of her mouth.

“I would ask a boon of you.”

“Uh… sure?” Roë said. This dragon wanted them to do him a _favour_? “What uh, what is it you require?”

The dragon shifted on his perch, a few metres above Roë and Serana. It was curious how human he looked when he did so. “For countless years, I have roamed this realm, snared into service to the Ideal Masters. I have been a prisoner here for centuries, in utter darkness and solitude.”

“Aw come on,” Serana said to Roë. “Now he’s making me feel bad.”

“There’s always more to our enemies than meets the eyes, I s’pose.”

“Once, I roamed the skies over Tamriel,” the dragon continued. “I felt the sun on my scales, the rain on my wings. If I could but return there, for just a short while. To see light again, feel clean air, not this putrid miasma.”

“I don’t uh… assume you can just leave?” Roë asked.

“If I only could,” Durnehviir lamented. “I am forever in the service of the Ideal Masters. But there is another servitude, another duty I must now fulfil. One that transcends my debt to the Ideal Masters. If the Thu’um compels me, then I must respond, however briefly, and even the Ideal Masters cannot stop me.”

If the _what_ compelled him? “Forgive us,” Serana asked, the same question Roë had, “but what’s a Thu’um?”

“It… it is the shout of the Dragons,” Durnehviir stammered, as if he was surprised at having to explain such a simple fact. “If you shout my name to the heavens when you feel the time is right, with the honour I bestow on you, I will appear at your side, instantly and faithfully, as your Grah-Zeymahzin, not your servant, but your ally.”

“So…” Roë asked, “All we have to do is shout your name when we’re back in Tamriel?”

“Yes,” the dragon said. “Use it as you would any other Thu’um.”

“Uh,” Serana said, “I’m sorry to have to say this, but we… don’t know how to use the uh… Thu’um.”

The dragon was silent for a moment, sitting motionless on its perch. “Then… neither of you are Dovahkiin?”

“Dragonborn?” Roë asked. “No, that’s… not us, I’m afraid.”

Durnehviir hung his head, and Roë actually felt sorry for the monster. “Then hope will remain idle. Only the Dragonborn may use the Thu’um, and you are not Dragonborn. And so my imprisonment continues with no respite.”

Yeah, now Roë definitely felt sorry for the creature. And from the looks of her, so did Serana.

“I have no more to ask of you then, and I must continue my vigil,” the dragon said, slowly spreading his wings to take off.

“Wait, wait,” Serana said. “For what it’s worth, apparently there _is_ a Dragonborn out there somewhere.”

The dragon looked at them with renewed interest.

“Yes, there is,” Roë said, having heard the stories even before Lord Harkon had warned them about the Dragonborn. “One’s been discovered a year or two ago. Maybe if you could reach out somehow?”

“From this prison? That will not be possible,” the dragon said. “But if you would do me the honour, as my Qahnoarin, to issue my challenge to this Dragonborn, I would be eternally grateful.”

Serana asked, “You… want us to tell the Dragonborn to come hack away at you?”

“I cannot be Grah-Zeymahzin to one who is not my Qahnoarin. Only one who has bested me can have my allegiance.”

“So a dragon wants the Dragonborn to trot over and beat the stuffing out of him,” Serana said quietly to Roë. “This is some crazy world we live in.”

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” Louder again, she told the dragon, “We’ll uh, try to pass the message along, but we can’t make any promises. The Dragonborn’s… not really a friend to our kind, it seems.”

“You will find a way,” the dragon said. “I’m confident you will.”

With that, he launched himself up into the air and flew away, merging with the dark purple sky, leaving Roë and Serana alone at the edge of this otherworld. When Roë looked up, she could see her own familiar realm through the tiny hole so high up.

“Serana.”

“Mm?”

“Can we leave this place and go back to our world?”

“Best idea ever.”

 


	43. Falnas: Two Wrongs

 

**FALNAS**

**Two Wrongs**

**The Ratway**

 

“Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten us into,” Brynjolf said to Falnas with a grin when they’d all gathered around the table for the second meeting, only a few hours after the assisted escape of the little murderer. Nine, that job sure had turned into a massive bungling spree. Brynjolf seemed to be enjoying it though. Falnas suppose at least that made for one of them.

“So wait, walk me through this again,” Vex said, significantly less amused than Brynjolf. “You enact some harebrained scheme to get this assassin tart captured, and then some random stranger shows up, starts torturing her, and then you two decide to just… help her escape?”

“One of us, technically,” Delvin quipped. “But yeah, lass. Wasn’t right what was happ’nin’.”

“You captured her,” Vex repeated, taking care to sound as baffled as possible, “and then you help her escape. How is that logical?”

“We’re not all as hard-hearted as you are, Vex,” Falnas said with a sigh. “I’m sure you think you’re a real tough chick, but you wouldn’t have been able to keep watching either. We wanted to question her, not dismember her.”

“Sides, think o’ the consequences, yeah?” Delvin added. “We let this happen, Astrid gets us all murdered, one at a time.”

“Yeah, this is definitely a better outcome,” Vex snapped. “Now we’ll just watch the Guild slowly disintegrate as septims dry up. Nice job, Delvin!”

“I don’t see you doin’ anythin’ about it,” Delvin shouted back, losing his temper. “You spend a few hours outside, come back with a miserable hundred septims and a bloody worthless vase, and you think you’re ‘elpin’? With these bloody crumbs? Do you think – ”

“Hey why don’t you shove it up your ass, Delvin! I risked – ”

“Delvin,” Tonilia said calmly. “Vex. This is getting us nowhere.”

It was significant how Tonilia only had to say a word or two, and command everyone’s silence. She rarely spoke, but when she did, people _listened_. “We need to deal with this situation, and with haste. Because Vex is right, the Guild will bleed to death if we don’t remedy this problem.”

“It would have been remedied if they hadn’t let that assassin go,” Vex sulked, her arms crossed.

Sapphire snorted and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Delvin’s right. The Brotherhood would have murdered us all.”

“Who was that lunatic anyway?” Brynjolf asked Falnas.

“Long story.” They’d listened to the guy’s explanation after he’d given up on trying to swim after the assassin, and Falnas had come to understand him a bit better in the end. Not that he condoned what had happened, but he’d understood. What this guy had been through would make it easy for anyone to cross a few lines. “But he’s gone now. Won’t be back.”

“Whatever the case,” Karliah finally spoke, “Tonilia is right. We need to come up with something, and quickly.”

“We could just cut Maven open?” Sapphire said. As protests were raised, she held up her hands defensively and said, “I know we’re not killers, but desperate times, desperate measures, right? I mean, she’s suckered us enough, hasn’t she?”

“Damn straight,” Vex agreed. “It’d be what she’s got coming. And I mean, it’s not like she’s innocent. We know she had our prancing vigilante killed. A few brewers too.”

“Yes,” Brynjolf said. “We know. But we have no evidence.”

“So?” Vex shrugged. “Only evidence we need is our own certainty.”

“Vex, Sapphire,” Karliah explained. “Nobody says Maven won’t deserve what you want to do to her, and no one says it wouldn’t be good riddance to bad rubbish. But is it good for the Guild? No.”

Vex’ eyes flashed. “What do _you_ know about – ”

“Vex,” Tonilia said again. “It wouldn’t be good for the Guild because murdering a prominent citizen, no matter how disagreeable, would make the guard take even more severe action against us.”

Brynjolf nodded. “Think this is bad? We off Maven, it gets ten times worse.”

“And we can’t report her to the guard either,” Falnas said. “If they’d even listen to us, we’d need evidence.”

“Evidence that _you_ could have gotten,” Sapphire said with a grin.

“Shut it, you,” Falnas grinned back, knowing full well she was teasing. He was glad she’d thawed a bit, and trusted him again, despite appearances being completely against him at one point. She’d made the right choice, thankfully. “But yeah, state of affairs is that we don’t have the evidence, nothing we can do to change that. Which means we need another plan.”

“We could frame her for something?” Brynjolf suggested.

“Mm, yes, good idea,” Karliah agreed. “Won’t be easy with the guard breathing down our necks, but certainly an idea to keep in mind. Any suggestions?”

“Mmmno, not really,” Sapphire mused. “But she’ll definitely be on guard. She probably knows Mercer’s gone, and that we’ll be scheming against her.”

Brynjolf shrugged. “Let her know. It’s not like there’s anything she can do about it.”

“Yet,” Delvin pointed out. “You can bet she’s plannin’ somethin’ right now.”

“Things are about to get even less comfortable for us, as well,” Tonilia said. “My sources tell me that there’s an even bigger threat than the guard approaching.”

Everyone fell silent, all eyes on Tonilia. If she was worried, it meant bad news.

She shifted in her chair, and leaning on her elbows, she imparted, “Seems Mjoll had a friend in a high place. Remember last year, when she was gone from the village several times, for a few days or weeks?”

“M-hm,” Vex said. “Was an easier time for us.”

“Yes, well, apparently she spent that time looking for relics, like that sword she carried. But she wasn’t alone.”

Karliah sighed wearily. “Tonilia, please, just tell us straight, I’m too tired for exposition.”

“Very well.” She took a breath. “It turns out Mjoll has been shield-sister a few times. For none other than a certain sword-slinger called Arska Gvalhir.”

Now where had Falnas heard that name before?

“Also known as the Dragonborn.”

Silence fell.

“Well,” Vex said finally, picking at her fingernails with her knife. “We’re dead.”

Brynjolf sighed. “We might as well hang it up.”

“We need to take action,” Karliah said calmly. “Relocate, temporarily disband, whatever, but we can’t keep operating in the city. If she gets here, she’ll murder us all without a second thought. And not a single person in the guard will dare stand in her way.”

“And make a livin’ as dung shovelers or latrine cleaners?” Delvin scoffed. “That’s old bollocks, Karliah. We’ve got to deal with this or it’s never goin’ away.”

“Let me talk to her,” Falnas said, once again making the meeting fall silent.

After a moment of perplexity, Vex snorted and said, “Sure. Maybe you’ll take long enough to die so we can get away.”

“Uh, Falnas,” Sapphire asked, putting his hand on his. “You _do_ know that… well, what kind of person she is, right? She’s ruthless, she’ll kill you and not think twice about it. _Especially_ if she believes you’re responsible for killing her friend.”

Falnas shook his head. “Look, I know the reputation she’s got but…” he cleared his throat. “… I know her personally.”

All jaws dropped.

“Yes I, uh… met her a while ago. Caught her doing something, well, not exactly on the up-and-up. Thought she’d kill me for sure, because, you know, her reputation, but she was actually pretty decent about it.”

“Yes, but Falnas – ” Karliah began.

“Trust me, alright? She’s not as nasty as people make her out to be. I mean, she won’t be starting any parties or whatever, but she’s a reasonable sort.”

With a lewd grin, Sapphire purred, “So… what kind of nastiness did you catch her doing?”

“I can’t tell,” Falnas grinned back. “Sorry, I promised. Only reason I’m still alive too. Anyway, unless you guys want to pack your bags and migrate, this is the only shot we have, I think. Let me talk to her.”

Falnas wasn’t even half as sure of himself as he sounded, but he had to do this.

“Yes, but even if you don’t get chopped up on the spot, what will you say?” Brynjolf asked. “Even if she listens, there’s a big difference between listening and believing. She’ll just think you’re trying to pin it on Maven out of desperation.”

“M-hm,” Tonilia agreed. “And I dread to imagine what she’ll do if she feels like you’re trying to deceive her.”

_Not you, Tonilia. I need you on my side in this. People listen to you._

“I’m aware of that,” he admitted. “But that’s why I’ll ask her to give us a few days. To find evidence.”

“We’re _not_ bringin’ another assassin ‘ere,” Delvin chuckled.

“No, no,” Falnas said, grinning along. “But a few days is a few days. I was thinking…”

“No. No, Falnas, no.” Brynjolf shook his head. “Just… no.”

“It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

“Falnas, come on,” Vex argued. “Breaking into Maven’s house? At least the Dragonborn would kill us quick.”

“Maven will pull out all your toenails, mate,” Delvin said. “An’ that’d just be the beginnin’. Least this Arska tart’ll kill you quick.”

Vex chuckled. “Heh. Arse-ka.”

“Be sure to call her that to her face,” Brynjolf chortled.

“If it’s the last thing I get to say? You bet.”

“I’ll _show_ ‘er my arse before she chops my head off,” Delvin laughed, his joke combined with the tension of the meeting sending most of the attendees into a bout of mirth. Even Tonilia permitted herself a smile.

“Alright people,” Karliah called the meeting to order again. “We need to make a decision. First things first. Falnas, do you think you can talk to her at least? Give us a few days?”

Falnas nodded. “I think this is the only thing we can do. Maybe if we can intercept her before she’s in the city…”

Tonilia shook her head, the highlights from the candles shifting on her dark ebony skin. “She’s with the Jarl as we speak.”

“Which means she’ll already know who the prime suspects are,” Karliah grunted. “You’ll have to be _very_ persuasive, Falnas. I don’t like this. She’s liable to kill you right there, and… well, I don’t want you to get killed.”

Another silence fell, but this one of another kind. What she’d said just now was remarkably personal, and the way in which she said it… The others had picked up on it too, all eyes now on Karliah.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t want anyone to die. Just… let’s stick to that.”

Warmth flared up in Falnas’ chest. That had been more than just caring for a friend. “Karliah, I promise, I _know_ this woman. She’s not the kill-first-ask-questions-later person the stories make her out to be.”

At least, he hoped so.

“Are you sure about this, Falnas?” Tonilia asked gently.

He nodded. He had to be. “I’ll talk to her. She won’t kill me on the spot, that I know for sure. Whether or not I’ll be able to persuade her is another matter, but I don’t think she’ll kill me for trying. And since Siari gave us the name of the contractor between all the crying and snottering, we know for sure that it’s Maven. So we’ve got nothing to lose by breaking into her home.”

“Except our lives,” Vex pointed out, “our toenails, our fingernails, our noses and our external genitalia.”

“What Falnas means,” Tonilia said calmly, “is that at least we’ll know we’re breaking into the right house, and won’t turn Maven against us when he’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Right,” Brynjolf agreed. “We know our enemy. But I still think breaking into Maven’s house is a much scarier prospect than being hunted down by that Dragonborn woman.”

“We’re Thieves,” Delvin said, slapping the table. “If we can’t break into the house of some old dried-up bint, then what the bloody Oblivion are we doin’ ‘ere? ‘Ave you become old women? Falnas is throwin’ us a lifeline ‘ere. We better bloody take it.”

With a sigh, Vex said, “Fine by me. But on one condition. When we’re all on the rack in Maven’s basement, I get to say I told you so, alright?”

Falnas grinned. “Deal.”

Brynjolf spread his hands. “It’s a terrible plan, but since it’s the only plan we’ve got…”

“If Falnas thinks it can be done,” Tonilia said, nodding, “then we should waste no time. The Dragonborn will start looking for us any moment now.”

“And you can bet she’ll be told where we are very quickly,” Karliah grunted.

“Exactly,” Tonilia said. “We have to intercept her before she comes here. You’re _sure_ of this, Falnas?”

Falnas nodded. “As sure as one can be when dealing with so many unpredictable factors.”

Pulling her mouth to the side, Vex muttered, “That’s encouraging.”

“We oughta stop talkin’ an’ let Falnas flap gums with the head-chopper. Go on, best o’ luck mate.”

Delvin was right, they hadn’t a moment to lose. Falnas rose, buckled his knife belt and told his friends, “Well, I’ll return to tell you how it went.”

Karliah rose as well. “I’ll walk you to the exit.”

Oh my, this just might be the one good thing that would come from all of this. Falnas felt his heart speed up, but he kept his cool, because that was what he did. Keep cool under pressure.

They walked to the ladder, and just before she let him climb up, and to the cold air of Riften’s graveyard, she said, “Be careful, alright? Promise me you’ll be back.”

He nodded. “I promise. Takes more than an angry woman with an ancient daedra-forged sword and near-godly powers to kill me.”

She chuckled briefly. “I mean it, though. You were the only one who stood up for me. Who trusted me when Mercer had all the others fooled. I… haven’t forgotten, nor will I ever.”

His heart raced as he looked into Karliah’s strange purple eyes, as beautiful as the rest of her. “I just made the right choice, Karliah. Nothing more.”

She leaned over to him, ignoring all the eyes on them, and kissed him on the cheek. She smelled of sweat and leather, but Falnas didn’t mind, it was her smell and it made him feel wonderful, as did the brief touch of her lips on his skin. “Now go, everyone’s watching.”

With a nod, he went up the ladder, and just before the grating of stone on stone drowned out the voices, he had to chuckle when he heard Karliah nervously snap at the others, “Get back to work, you nosy fools, this isn’t a show.”

As the stone ground away, the elation and butterflies in his stomach made way for the cold realization of the reality of it all. He hoped with some enthusiasm that this Dragonborn didn’t just chop him in two right there and then. He supposed it was easy to be a casual killer when there were never any consequences from the law or its enforcers.

He made for the Jarl’s longhouse, his heart again speeding up, but for a much less joyous reason than before. He trampled flowers and kicked dirt onto headstones as he walked to the longhouse as fast as he could, but he had no time to be bothered with this now. And in the darkness of the late twilight, he also didn’t notice the young Nord with prematurely grey hair standing at one of the headstones, his hands in his sides, studying the name chiselled into it, his face full of hateful determination.

He hopped over the cemetery wall, went past the smithy, and to the stairs leading to the Jarl’s dwelling. And sure enough, as he got there, the door opened and out came the person who would either spare them or chop them all up into little bits. She was dressed in impressive armour, made from bones that had doubtless at one point belonged to a dragon. He remembered the stories going around of her walking casually to the smith, dumping the harder-than-steel bones on his floor and telling him to build her a suit of armour, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He closed his eyes, took a breath and walked up to her, meeting her just at the foot of the stairs.

“Lady Arska? I was wondering if you – ”

His sentence wasn’t even finished or there was already a sword at his throat, drawn almost faster than he could see. He held up his hands and chuckled uncomfortably. “Uh… I just… want to talk?”

Oh Nine, this was off to a bad start.

“Talk, do you?” the woman asked with her eyes narrowed. He could see a faint sheen in them, as if they reflected what little light there was slightly more red, but that was probably only because he knew about her, what she was. “I don’t think I want to listen to any of you Guild rats _talk_. Squeal, maybe. But talk… no.”

“I just – ”

“And don’t call me Lady. I work for a living.”

“Uh, s… sure,” he stammered, the tip of the wicked, curved blade still on his throat. “Look, if you’d just hear me out – ”

“Why should I? Did my friend get a chance to speak? My friend who died naked and all alone, stabbed in the back by an honourless coward, and got thrown into the canal like a Nine-damned cadaver?”

“Can you _please_ take the weapon off my throat?” he insisted. “You’re the Dragonborn. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can still disembowel me faster than I can say ‘naked dancing Greybeards’. So, please… can we talk, because things aren’t what they seem. Not what they’ve told you.”

She kept looking at him, her rough but still fairly attractive face pulled into a suspicious frown. At length the blade lowered. “You saying the Jarl’s a liar?”

“No,” he said, letting out the pent-up air. “But he’s been fed false information.”

“About the Thieves’ Guild innocence, I suppose?” she scoffed. “Which you can doubtless prove with tangible and unmistakable hard evidence?”

“Yes. That’s right.” Well, sort of.

Her eyes narrowed again. “Don’t I know your dodgy face from somewhere?”

Phew, she remembered. At least partly. “We met uh, here in Riften. The flophouse. I saw you doing…” he threw a furtive look around, “… something very naughty to one of the guests.”

He saw it on her face. She remembered alright. Remembered what he’d seen. What he knew. And what he hadn’t told anybody like she’d commanded him to. He hoped that would count for something.

“Oh, right. You. Well, I suppose it does count for something that you kept your mouth shut. But not much.”

“Can we just, I don’t know, have a drink somewhere, like civilized people?”

She gave a lopsided grin. “I don’t drink… alcohol.”

“I do,” Falnas said to break the tension. “And I don’t think any tavern keeper will make a scene of you not ordering anything.”

She harrumphed. “I’ll listen to what you have to say, but if I don’t like what I hear, I’m running you through right there and then, that clear? So if you’re thinking of feeding me lies, you’ve got one last chance to walk away.”

He nodded. “The fact that I’m staying right here should tell you enough.”

“We’ll see. What was your name again?”

“Falnas.”

They proceeded to the Bee and Barb, the Dragonborn staying a bit behind Falnas, doubtless to keep an eye on him, and went to sit at a table. All voices fell silent when Falnas came in, or rather, when people saw the Dovahkiin. Hm, it was nice to be seen with a celebrity, even in these circumstances.

“Over there,” the Dragonborn said quietly, but it was clearly not something that was to be argued with.

They sat down in the corner Arska had told him to go. It was a little cubby-hole that only had their table and a few chairs, and both he and his companion had their backs to a wall each. “I’ll say again, you try to horseshit me and I’ll nail you to the wall, clear?”

Falnas sighed. “Look, there’s really no need for all these threats. I _know_ you’re crazy powerful, I _know_ you can kill me just by thinking about it hard enough. Just… can we do this with some dignity, please.”

Another grunt. “Fine. But say what you’re going to say.”

Keerava came to stand at their table, wringing her hands nervously. If Argonians could sweat, this one would have drowned them all in minutes. “What… what can I…”

“Mazte, please, Keerava,” Falnas said. “And my friend whatever she’s having.” He gave her a small purse of septims. “Just return the rest to me.”

“Y-yes of course… My lady?”

“Don’t call her Lady,” Falnas said with a grin, even though he was nervous as Oblivion. “She works for a living.”

He got a disapproving frown from the blonde woman, but he thought, hoped, he’d amused her somewhat. He had to play out his charms to the fullest, make her not want to kill him.

“Just mead,” Arska Gvalhir grunted at her. “Put it down, then leave us.”

“O-of course,” the Argonian stammered, shuffling away backwards, bowing all the while.

She glared at Falnas in silence until the drinks arrived, along with the remainder of the gold. Falnas was pretty certain there wouldn’t be a single coin too much taken out.

With a wordless gesture, the Dragonborn ordered Falnas to start talking.

He cleared his right. “Right. Well, erm, for starters, the Thieves’ Guild had nothing to do with the death of Mjoll the Lioness.”

“I already knew you were going to say that,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows, her face irritated. “And it’s what they all say. How ‘bout you tell me why I should believe you, instead.”

“Because we’re thieves, Arska.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Errr… we’re thieves, _Dovahkiin_?”

She snorted, amused. “I’m just pulling your leg. Just call me whatever.” Her face went serious again instantly. “As long as your arguments are good.”

“Right.” She was a strange one. “Like I said, we’re thieves, not murderers. It’s true that Mjoll… well, didn’t like us much, but she always saw us as the lesser of two evils.” Stretching the truth a bit there. He’d have to be careful but it had to be done. “She knew Maven was up to much dirtier things than the thieving jobs we did for her.”

“Not convinced.”

“Look how things are, Arska.” He felt uncomfortable calling her by her first name, but he had to make sure he forged a bond with her. That, and he didn’t know what else to call her. “The guard’s got us all but locked down. We’re not idiots, if we’d planned this, we would have known this would happen. Why would we saw the legs from under our own chair?”

“Makes sense,” she admitted. “But you thieves aren’t the brightest bunch. So no, you’ll have to do better.”

This was to be expected. What else could he tell her? He ransacked his brain for arguments, hoping she wouldn’t just run him through for thinking too long. “We know who contracted the hit, and we know who executed it. It was Maven Blackbriar, and she hired the Brotherhood to get it done. We had no knowledge of it.”

“That’s nice, but you could say whatever you want. Without proof, I’m holding you all responsible.”

If only they had the assassin to show her. It’d probably end very messy for the little thing though. And assassin or no, Falnas’ conscience didn’t permit it. “Then give me a chance to prove it.” He put his palms together. “Just a day or two. That’s all I ask. If I haven’t been able to show you anything before then, you can chop off all our heads and mount them on your wall.”

“I give you a few days, you all scarper and set up operations somewhere else.”

He sighed, lowering his head. She was right to be worried for that. “I promise, Arska. I swear on my soul. I know we’ll never be able to run far enough. I’ve kept your secret, now I’m asking you to trust me.”

She looked at him intently, leaning back in her chair. “Listen,” she said. “I wish I could believe you, but – ”

“Arska, we’re _thieves_ , not murderers. Surely Mjoll must have told you about Maven? How she was worried that one day she’d have her murdered? And honestly, who would Maven contract? Us, or the Brotherhood? With her means? She won’t hire a bunch of thieves, she’ll go to the professional murderers.”

The woman was silent, looking away, thinking it over.

“Trust us when we say Maven’s kicked us all in the balls by doing this. We’re on the same side here. You and us, we’ll both be happy when she’s gone. You’ll get justice, and we’ll be able to breathe again.”

Her eyes fixed on him again. “That sounded awfully like manipulation, Falnas. I don’t like it when people try to manipulate me.”

It was, he had to admit it. And she was sharper than he thought. “Alright, I just meant… we would’ve had nothing to gain and everything to lose by getting Mjoll murdered. And if you just let me get proof, I’ll – ”

“Fine. You’ve got _one day_ ,” she snapped. “Get it? _One day_.”

It was better than nothing. “Alright, thank you Arska, I promise you, we’re worth the trust.”

“You better be. And just so I’m certain,” she said, cocking her head, “You’re staying with me during that day. Anywhere you go, I go. You go to your rat hole, I’m there with you. You read a book, I read over your shoulder. You go to eat bangers and mash, I’m at your table. You go to a brothel, I see if you’re treating her right. You go to take a shit, I’m right outside the door. Clear?”

Really? _Really?_ How was he supposed to gather evidence with this walking fortress next to him? And no one else dared burgle Maven’s house. Gah, what a miserable situation. But there was nothing else for it. “Fine, but I’d like to ask for one exception.”

She snorted. “You can ask, but the answer’s going to be no.”

“Hear me out. To get the evidence I need, I’m going to have to do some… well, burgling.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Yes, and?”

“Well… I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think sneaking around is your – ”

She laughed, the first time he heard her do so. He supposed it was a good sign. “A lot about me you don’t know, elfling.” She leaned in. “I’m a Vampire. How do you think I get my sustenance? Trust me, if you’re going to go prowling, I won’t get in the way.” She added a condescending, “quite the opposite.”

“Is that a challenge?” he tried to lighten the mood.

“No. Just a fact. So no, you don’t get off the hook.” She looked around, then picked up her cup and made the mead splash onto the floor beneath her seat. “First thing we do, is see your contact, tell her you’ll be spending some quality time with the most beautiful and deadly woman since the Nerevarine got drunk, put on a dress and stuck two oranges in his brassiere. You’re going to tell your contact you’ll die a gruesome and messy death if they try to double-cross me. Then we’re going to get your burgling done.”

There was nothing else for it.

“You uh… brought her here?” Karliah asked Falnas, waiting for him at the mausoleum. His new baby-minder stood a few metres back, her arms crossed. “You sure that’s wise?”

“Only way she’d let me have a day to find evidence,” Falnas said. “She’s actually coming with me to burgle Maven’s house.”

“Good,” Karliah said with a wicked grin. “With any luck, you’ll get caught and Problem Dragonborn will deal with Problem Maven right then and there.”

“That’s not the idea. We won’t be a party to murder. We find the evidence, and then Arska does what she thinks is best. If she wants to kill Maven, fine, but without us.”

Karliah raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “It’s ‘Arska’ already, is it?” Her grin made it clear she wasn’t being serious. Not entirely.

Falnas shrugged. “I have to call her something.”

Karliah looked past him, to the woman standing amid the flowers, gently lit by the pale moonlight. “I suppose she’s not bad-looking. I’d imagined her to be this manly and butch almost-man, but as far as Nord women go…”

“Told you she wasn’t as terrible as the stories made her out to be.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, briefly touching his arm. “Now stay that way. Don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere. We’re all in this together. Find that evidence so we can get this woman and the guard off our backs.”

He nodded. “Don’t worry about me.”

She sighed, looking across the graveyard, tranquil and clam in the frigid night. “Rebuilding the Guild ought to be a lot more fun than Mercer and Maven had ruining it.”

“Tell me about it.” He looked back at Arska, glaring at him impatiently and tapping her foot. Strangely, he began to like the grumpy woman. “I have to go. I’ll be back, promise.”

She nodded, this time not giving him a kiss, probably due to a certain Dragonborn ruining their privacy. “If it’s you or her, kill her, alright?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll see you soon.”

He tore his eyes away from her, and rejoined Arska Gvalhir, looking back one last time to see her standing there, hugging herself against the cold and looking wonderful, giving him a weak smile. He had half a mind to give the Nord woman the boot and just stay with her. But he had to do this.

“Bout time,” Arska remarked as they started walking. “You’re aware she’s got feelings for you?” She asked it like she was asking about the weather.

“Bhuh, what, huh?” Falnas blurted out. He hoped she did, but as if this buckethead could tell from just watching them from afar for a few minutes.

“It’s obvious,” she said with a shrug. “You may not think of me as one, but I _am_ a woman, and what I saw in her eyes was more than just comradeship.”

“I… don’t think of you as anything else than a woman,” he said, carefully, so it sounded like the compliment it was, “but I’m not sure if what you say after observing us for a brief moment is very reliable.”

“Forget reliable,” the Dragonborn said, surprisingly sociable. “More important question is, are you glad to hear it or not?”

Falnas chuckled, “What, did you turn into a love therapist when I wasn’t looking?”

“I’ll have you know that despite my obviously considerable power and my aloof demeanour, I’m also someone who finds joy in seeing people love and care about each other.”

What a strange woman this was. But fine, he’d play her game. “Yes, Arska, I’d like nothing more than to know she cares about me.”

She smiled, and just said mysteriously, “Good.”

“Thank you for this, Arska,” Falnas said, eager to shift the topic. “Giving me the chance to prove our innocence.”

“Mm. Don’t thank me for that, I’d be a horrible person if I didn’t give you the chance. Don’t betray my trust and prove you stopped me from killing innocent people, and we’ll owe each other gratitude.”

That was a good way to look at it. And all that for a Vampire. “I won’t let you down. Now, next stop is Maven’s house.”

“Right. Let’s stop by Mjoll’s house. I need to change first.”

“Yes, please. I’m sure you’re good at stealth, but wearing that? No.”

“No.”

Mjoll’s house was just around the corner, and when they reached it, Arska stopped and looked up at the front wall, with its green shutters and creeper plants running up one side.

After a moment of silence, Falnas risked saying, “I forgot to tell you, I’m sorry about your loss. Really.”

“If you weren’t involved in killing her, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Would you like me to… wait outside?”

She grinned. “Nice try, but no. And before you get your hopes up, you won’t get to see me change either.”

“I wasn’t hoping I’d get to see you – ”

“Good. But just so you know,” she said playfully, “I have nothing to be shy about. My body is as amazing as my sword skills.”

“I’ll… take your word for it.”

They went inside, to the guest room. So this was where Mjoll had lived. A tiny house, with almost no furniture, a few weapons hung on the walls. When Arska led him upstairs and to the guest room, he threw a glance through one of the open doors and saw an empty bath tub, an open window, and blood everywhere. Someone had tried to clean it up, but most had been sucked up by the stone and could never be cleaned off, only painted over.

“Poor Mjoll,” Arska said hoarsely when she noticed him looking at the bathroom. “She just wanted to make this city a safer place. I hope you realize that.”

“I do, Arska,” Falnas said solemnly. “What happened to her was terrible. I mean, us and Mjoll, we had this cat and mouse game going, but it was always harmless, you know? All of us respected her, and I’m… actually glad, in a way, that you’re here, threatening to kill us.”

She turned to him, giving him a questioning look. “How’s that?”

“Well this way,” he explained, “I’ll get the chance to help you bring the culprit to justice. It’s much better than doing nothing, like we were before.” He actually meant it for the most part, now that he stood in the empty house, looking at a bathroom that would never again see Mjoll throw her clothes on a stool or brush her hair.

She smiled sadly. “Still some honour among thieves, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“Alright, stay.”

Ah, she had a screen to change behind. Yes, that would work. Her head stuck out above the edge of the screen, but the rest of her was invisible. “So,” she said as buckles clinked and chain mail jingled, her hair popping up and down behind the screen. “What makes you so sure it was Maven?”

“Who else could it have been?” Falnas said, spotting a stool but not sitting down on it. These were Mjoll’s things.

Arska’s head appeared above the screen again, her eyes on him. “What, that’s all you got? That’s the only indication you have?”

“No,” he said, wringing his hands. Oh, this would be embarrassing to admit. “We actually caught one of the assassins. She confessed it was Maven. But she uh… escaped.”

“ _What_?” she asked, incredulous but not sounding angry. “How’d you let _that_ happen?”

“It’s a long story. We… got interrupted during the questioning. Some guy with a massive chip on his shoulder and a score to settle with our prisoner. She… escaped in the confusion.” The entire story would take ages to tell, but he did add, “We… let her escape. The guy was about to torture her to death, and no way I’m allowing that, no matter who it is.” He knew this would either anger her for letting the assassin go, or make her trust in him as not-a-killer more solid. He hoped for the second.

“Then you’re a better man than I am,” she merely said. Good enough. “Well, than I am a woman.”

More shuffling of fabric and chinking of metal as the underlayer of her armour, the cloth and leather padding, was thrown over a stool next to the screen. “Oh by the way, if you’re thinking of running, you better believe I’m running after you _as is_ , feeling the wind go through my pubes. It’ll be the last thing you see anyway.”

“I’m not running,” Falnas said again. He wished the woman would lay off the threats, despite coming to like her more as they spent time together.

The sounds that came from behind the screen as she put on the other set of apparel, thankfully, were free of clinks and clangs, with only the rustling of cloth and the occasional muffled creak of leather audible.

A moment later, she emerged from behind the screen, transformed. Gone was the massive, noisy armour, and the broad girdle carrying weapons and potions and medical items, replaced by a tight-fitting set of dark leather gear with muffled buckles and a subtle enchantment on it to make it better match the colour of the background, as if she was part of the wall behind her.

Neat. Falnas sure wanted some enchanted armour of his own.

“That… would work better for burgling, yes,” Falnas had to admit, feeling like a vagrant with his worthless common leathers.

“Told you you didn’t have to worry,” she said with a bounce. She certainly looked a lot more feminine like this, without the bulky armour and with her golden hair neatly brushed and tied in a ponytail behind her head. “Let’s get this done.”

“Apart from the staff and other nuisances, we need to be especially wary about two things,” Falnas explained as they walked across town to Maven’s house, near the gates. “One’s her dogs. She’s got two of them. They smell us or see us, they’ll bark the whole house apart. Not good.”

“Mm. Second?”

“Maul,” Falnas said, grimacing. “Maven’s bodyguard. He’s a mean son of a whore, a massive bastard who’ll rip the arms off a troll with nothing more than a grunt, and worst of all, he’s a thief like us. He knows the tricks of the trade, and he’s sharp as a knife.”

“I’ll worry about the dogs,” Arska said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got just the way to deal with them. This Maul character, well, we’ll just have to try and avoid him. I could just shout him all the way to Markarth, but since we’re staying undetected, well…”

“Yes, we are. If we’re spotted, or things go loud, Maven will be able to deny everything and say we planted the evidence.”

Arska shrugged. “Only one who needs to know the evidence is real is me. Nobody will stop me. Not the guards, not anyone.”

“Well, she’ll also have the chance to destroy any evidence.”

“What makes you think she hasn’t done that already?”

Falnas chuckled. “Old Maven is a stickler for routine and bookkeeping. She’ll have it booked somewhere, but it’ll be marked under something phony. So if we see a suspicious entry in her ledgers on the week Mjoll was murdered, well…”

“It’d be a strong suspicion,” Arska said as they walked. “But _not_ proof.”

He knew all too well. “I know, Arska. But we have to hope we’ll find more than that.”

“No, _you_ do.”

“Come on, for Oblivion’s sake, are you – ”

She grinned at him. “I’m playing with you. I’m pretty sure you’re telling the truth. Just… pretty sure isn’t enough. I need to be certain.”

That was certainly good to hear. “Appreciate it, Arska. You’re… nowhere near as bad as your reputation makes you out to be.”

The Dragonborn slapped a hand on her chest, making an exaggerated wounded face. “I have a bad reputation? People say bad things about me? Oh Aedra, my frail heart!”

Yeah, he was definitely beginning to appreciate the grumpy termagant. He supposed it was always that way, the more you got to know people, the more you understood and liked them. Or hated them completely.

And so they reached the gates, looking up, from a distance of course, at Maven’s house. “Well, here we are.” Falnas said. “We should look for a better way in than the front door.”

The door in question would be the worst possible entry point, as it always was. The house was large and broad, the second floor forming an overhand over the ground floor, creepers growing up against the wood. The shutters were all open, but none of the windows at the front opened, so that wasn’t an option either. The roof, on the other hand…

“What about the back?” Arska asked.

“No, the canal’s there, and there’s a balcony that offers a good view over the area. It’ll be impossible to approach undetected. No, I’ve got a better idea.”

Maven’s house was flanked by another residence on both sides, and it’d be much easier to reach the building from up high.

“Come on. We’re going via the roofs.” He grunted to himself, “Should have brought my climbing rope.”

Climbing another house would be safer. After briefly glancing around for any possible guards, Falnas jogged to the house next to Maven’s, and checked the side wall for climbability. “Got a few handholds,” he said to Arska. “Should be doable.”

“Mm. And once we’re on the roof?”

“Then it’s just a matter of removing a few shingles and we’re in.”

She nodded, her eyes reflecting the moonlight in pale red. He liked the person, but not the eyes. There was a bad hunger to them.

“You’re not, uh… gonna drink my blood for extra strength at some point, are you?”

She snorted. “Tch, why would I drink the blood of some rugged Dunmer when there’s nubile, juicy servant wenches in there?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Nubile, juicy serviant wenches?”

A shrug. “Young, sheltered blood tastes better.” She grimaced. “Had to drain a Forsworn once. I swear to Talos, he tasted like thistles. You know, plant fibres. Bah.”

“I’ll… take your word for it.” What a strange thing to share. Still, he was glad she was sharing odd stories and not showing him his own bowels. “Let’s go.”

The climb was challenging, but there were enough handholds, protrusions and balconies for them to be able to make it to the rooftop of the adjacent house without too many muffled curses and stifled grunts. Arska was a more than decent climber, and she made sure the tempo stayed high. Now they were on the ridge of the roof, carefully skulking to the other side of the house, and from there, onto Maven’s slightly higher roof.

“Alright, now to get a few shingles loose,” Falnas whispered while Arska looked down to make sure there weren’t any guards walking by.

“Long drop,” the Dragonborn remarked flatly. Indeed, Falnas doubted that even the Dragonborn could reliably survive a plummet three stories down onto the street flagstones. Of course, neither of them was planning on taking the plunge, but still.

Falnas stuck his dagger between the shingles and wrenched a few loose, making minimal noise as he did so, until he’d made a decent-sized hole. “This good?” he whispered, “or want me to do a few more?”

“You calling me fat?” she said with a grin.

“Forget I said anything.”

Carefully, they lowered themselves down into the dark attic. It was disconcerting to see Arska’s eyes glow slightly in the dark. Creeped him out, but on the other hand, she probably had much better vision in this darkness than he did. All he could see was vague, dark smears of what looked like walls and a door. There were cobwebs everywhere, he felt them on his skin. Good, that meant this door probably never saw any use. He saw the vague, dark form of Arska creeping forward, the wooden boards creaking ever so slightly, and she opened the door, peeking out.

“It’s good so far,” she whispered, “come on.”

He followed her, and they found themselves in the second-floor hallway, looking down at the stairs, rooms on both sides.

“This is the sleeping quarters probably,” Falnas whispered. “Won’t be much here except sleeping people, and we best not linger.” He fancied hearing light snoring from behind one of the doors, and told himself it had to be Maven sawing logs. Had to be.

“Might score a meal though,” Arska said, and in the light of the oil lamps on the wall, he could see the tip of her tongue brush across her lips. She probably wasn’t even aware that she was doing it. Falnas wondered if other Vampires were the same. “I’m getting pretty hungry from listening to all your innocence-claiming.”

Falnas decided not to say anything, instead creeping down the stairs, away from the sleeping people who could probably be awakened with just one wrong move and who’d make enough noise to be heard all the way to the Flagon.

They sneaked down and reached the landing between both floors. A few more steps down, their boots only making quiet taps on the hardwood, and they were on the first floor hallway.

“Shh,” Arska whispered quietly. “Stay here.” He made a questioning face, and looking back, she explained, “Dog.”

Right, she had the way to deal with them, she’d said. As she crept forward, a dog indeed emerged from one of the doorways, wary with its ears flat against its skull. It was adorned with a spiky collar, because of course it was. Falnas’ heart beat hard in his chest as he watched the Dragonborn hold out one hand and gently whisper something that sounded like, “Kaan… Drem… Ov.”

And to Falnas’ amazement, with a single quiet whine, the dog lay down, crossing its front paws and looking up at the Dragonborn cheerily.

Arska looked back at him and flicked her eyebrows, her irises lit up by a faint red glow.

Seemed like being able to use the dragon’s shouts was usable for more than just throwing people around like rag dolls. He sneaked after her, coming to kneel behind her as she was scratching the dog behind the ear.

The hallway they were in had three doors on either side, a set of stairs leading down, and several oil lamps lighting it up. And of course, one pleasantly tranquil and placid dog. There was something else hanging on the wall too. He had to grin when he saw it, and tapped Arska on the shoulder to get her attention. Her face turned from the dog to him, those red-reflecting eyes first settling on him, then looking where he was pointing.

Against the wall, framed in a massive and incredibly tacky gilded frame, was the square-metre portrait of a regal-looking and ludicrously idealized Maven Black-Briar.

The face Arska made said, _Nine, the bad taste of some people…_

He’d been in this house before, and he was aware of the lay-out somewhat. The second floor was mostly sleeping area, and the first floor, the one they were on, had all the business-related rooms, with the ground floor reserved for living, dining, receiving and the like. So if they were going to find anything, it was going to be here. The only door that was open was the one the dog had come out of. That probably wasn’t her office, but still, it’d be worth a look. He crept forward and made his way inside. The place was dark, but not too dark to see what he was doing. He ruffled through the papers on the desk, but these were all more domestic type of things, probably written up by one of the servants. Orders for milk, wheat, all of those trivial things. No, this wouldn’t be it.

When Falnas emerged from the room again, his ears perked for any sound, he found himself looking at one of the servant girls in her nightgown, standing in the middle of the hallway. And behind her, Arska Gvalhir with one hand on the girl’s mouth and nose and a dagger at her throat. His companion gave him a wearily annoyed look that said, _look at all the annoyance I have to deal with all the time_.

Great. The wench had walked in on them. Even though Arska had reacted quickly and appropriately, it was all ruined. She was quiet and under control, yes, but they’d been spotted, and there was no way she’d be quiet. So they could either abort the whole thing and hope that Maven didn’t kill every last member of the Guild, or they could cut this girl’s throat and drag her body outside and dump her in the canal – and even then it’d be risky. Unless… he recognized the girl, pretty in a waifish sort of way. She was the one who’d been pelted with the apple when he’d come to report to Maven, an eternity ago. Maybe, if she’d suffered enough abuse, just maybe…

He motioned for Arska to bring the girl into the office. The hand she was holding over the serving girl’s mouth was wet with tears.

The Dragonborn unceremoniously, but quietly dragged her into the office and sat her down on the chair. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. You scream, I cut you open from bladder to throat. That clear?”

Weeping, the girl jerked her head up and down. There was no need for this kind of threats, but on the other hand, there was. Just as long as Arska didn’t make good on her threats, it was fine by him. Sometimes you had to be cruel lest you had to be cruel.

“Listen to me,” Falnas whispered, kneeling before her. “Do as we say and you _will_ survive this. Alright?”

The girl nodded frantically again, wiping her tears from her cheeks.

“You know me, right? I’m from the Guild, I’m no killer. So believe me, I don’t want to kill you any more than you want to die, but I will if I have to.”

Or at least, Arska would. She stood behind their captive, her arms crossed.

“I know Maven hurts you. Treats you badly.” She looked away, biting her lip. Even in the faint light, he could see the bruises on her wrist, and it looked like there was one on her throat as well, and it hadn’t been made by Arska, unlike the little cut on her larynx, that had a little droplet of blood sliding down from it. “You must hate her, don’t you?”

She closed her eyes, pulling her mouth into a narrow stripe.

“And you’re not the only one. Maven is a bad person. She’s hurt other people too. Killed some of them, even. You must know about Mjoll, right?”

Her head slowly went up and down.

“You know it was Maven?”

“I... I suspected… yes.” She sniffed, making too much noise as she did so.

“We want to bring her to justice.” Probably Arska’s own brand of quick and bloody justice, but that wasn’t his concern. “I promise you, if you help us, we’ll find a place for you in the Guild. I know it’s not the career you’d envisioned, but anything’s better than working for this rotten woman, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t know.”

Arska leaned in, whispering in her ear, “Would you rather stay here and wait until she’s tired of you? You know what she does to those people, don’t you?”

She sniffed again. “Fine. What do you want?”

He put his hand on hers. “You won’t regret this. What’s your name?”

“Mruki.”

“No last name?”

She shook her head.

“Orphanage girl, huh? Figures.” He looked up at Arska. “Count on Maven to purchase orphans to use and abuse as household slaves.” Then, back to the serving girl, “You’ll get a better life when this is done. You’ll be an outlaw, but at least you’ll be free.”

She nodded slowly.

“So, what I want you to do is first, tell me if you have _any_ idea where we could find any evidence implicating Maven of Mjoll’s murder.”

“I… I can do that. Maven keeps all her secret documents in a small chest hidden in the upholstery of the sofa in the brewery office.” She hiccupped. “Door just across the hallway. Has to be in there.” She looked miserable, her hands in her lap, forced to betray her mistress and being jerked back and forth between the desire to be free from this horrible old witch, and the misplaced loyalty she still carried. She’d be happier when this was done, Falnas told himself. She would be.

“Good. Alright. And second, we need to get out of here, so if you want to come with us, we need to leave through the front door. Which means we’ll probably have to get past Maul.”

She nodded again, whispering, “He’s guarding the front door.”

“You’ll have to distract him.”

She looked up at him with big, teary blue eyes. “How?”

Arska let out a stifled snort. “Girl. This Maul person is a man, right? All it takes is for a pretty thing like you to come down in her nightgown and say you’re cold and need some company. He’ll be as distracted as a magpie in a silverware manufacture.”

The girl’s eyes flashed up at Arska’s. “I’m sure that won’t work. He rapes me three times per week.”

For the first time, Falnas saw the Dragonborn looking genuinely guilty and embarrassed. “Oh. I’m… sorry, I didn’t know.”

She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Orphanage girl.” Her eyes went to Falnas. “Right?”

“It won’t be this way any longer after tonight,” Falnas assured her. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“We’ll see. So how do I distract him?”

Falnas looked away, staring at the papers on the desk, thinking.

But before he could come up with an idea, Arska shrugged and said, “Tell him the truth.”

Both pairs of eyes went to her.

“Just go downstairs, say you’ve heard suspicious noise in the attic but that you’re afraid to go look.”

“What kind of plan is that?” Falnas hissed. “He’s going to come upstairs and we can sneak out, yes, but he’ll see the hole in the roof and he’ll know. The idea was to get the evidence _without_ arousing suspicion.”

With a smirk, Arska said, “He won’t see anything when he’s upstairs. Because I’m going to be there.”

Falnas sighed. “Killing him will – ”

“I won’t kill him,” Arska said. “At least, not until I’m ready to take my revenge on Maven. But I have a way of making people briefly pass out and wake up thinking they just had too much wine.”

Oh right. She’d mentioned being hungry. So her plan was to jump him, drink her fill, and then leave him to regain consciousness on the ground.

“By the time he wakes,” she whispered, “I’ll be on the roof, the shingles back in place.”

Falnas nodded. “And we’ll both be gone through the front door. Alright, that just might work. First things first though.”

“I’ll stay with the young lady,” Arska said, putting a friendly hand on the servant’s shoulder. “You go find whatever it is you need.”

“Great, I get to do the work.”

She shrugged. “You’re the Guild guy.”

He sneaked across the hallway, the dog apparently having trotted off, and fished his lockpicks from his pocket. He went to work, pushing the tumblers up carefully with one pick and setting them in place with the other. He wasn’t very good at picking locks, not compared to Brynjolf or Sapphire, but he knew enough to not have to resort to raking the picks, which was unreliable and noisy.

After a few tries, the lock snapped open, loudly enough to bring Mehrunes Dagon all the way from Oblivion to investigate, but no reactions, no alarms. He looked back and could only barely see Arska and the wench in the other room.

In he went, trying to spot the sofa, and seeing it set against the back room. He tiptoed over to it and stuck his hands between the cushions. Sure enough, there was a button there, and when he undid it, he could peel the leather back to reveal the cushion stuffing, and tucked into it, the small wooden box. He went to stand next to the window, and in what little light the moon cast, opened the box and checked the folded sheaf of papers inside. A lot of them were about her schemes to evade taxes, sabotage rival breweries and bribe officials. Juicy stuff, but nothing that would lead her to the gallows.

But the last paper, oh, that last paper. Grinning, he held it up to the moonlight and read:

_Astrid,_

_I thought your people were supposed to be reliable._

_I_ _’ve performed the Black Sacrament, I’ve paid the proper penance and I’ve waited patiently for results._

_If you can’t handle a simple assassination, I’ll find someone who can._

_I want this contract handled, and I want it handled immediately!_

_Maven Black-Briar_

Falnas had to hold back laughter. Almalexia’s worn and stretched-out pooper, she’d been dumb enough to actually sign it with her name and everything! This was probably a letter she’d been meaning to send, but didn’t have to since the assassination had been carried out in the meantime. Oh, what joy. This was what they needed. Arska would definitely consider this suitable evidence. She’d walk up to this exact villa in the morning and chop Maven up in tiny pieces. The guard wouldn’t dare lay a finger on her, and the Guild would be absolved of any guilt concerning Mjoll’s assassination.

The only thing he wanted to do now was run to the Flagon and kiss Karliah square on the mouth.

But they had to get out of here first. The evidence was already secured, now safely stuffed inside Falnas’ chest pocket, true, but Maul could still pose a problem, and part of absolving the Guild would mean not letting people know they’d procured the evidence through burglary.

He sneaked back to Arska and the girl, and announced in a triumphant whisper, “Got it. Oh Arska, you need to see it. You’ll jump for joy.”

“My friend is still dead, Falnas,” she informed him flatly. “No joy in that.”

“No, no, you’re right,” he said, realizing he was being a dolt. “But… well, this paper is all the evidence you’ll need.”

“I’ll read it when we’re back at your hidey-hole,” she said calmly. “Now we have to get out of here. Wench, you’re up.” To Falnas, she said, “Keep her here until I’ve had time to reach the attic. Then let her go down to get this Maul lummox.”

“He’s not a lummox,” Falnas warned. “He looks big and sluggish, but he’s surprisingly fast and agile.”

With a wink, Arska said before disappearing down the corridor, “Everyone is a lummox compared to me.”

Falnas found himself grinning at the woman’s snootiness. Worst thing was, she was probably right. Uppity, conceited little demigoddess she was.

“Alright,” he said, kneeling by the servant girl. “Will you be able to handle this?”

She nodded, still sitting in the chair with her hands in her lap.

“Good. So just go downstairs and go, ‘Big strong Maul, please go check upstairs I’m so scared’. That’s all you need to do. I’ll wait ‘til he’s gone upstairs, and I’ll rejoin you. Then we leave together. They’ll just think you ran away or something.” He hoped. “You just lay low until Maven’s got her comeuppance and then this whole nightmare’s over for you.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said, her tears dry. “I know what I need to do. But just… you’re not going to kill me afterwards, are you?”

“No. No, of course not,” Falnas said, indignant at the very notion. “We’re thieves, but believe me, Mruki, we’re the good guys here.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me.”

“So we just leave.” She took her night gown between the thumb and index fingers of both hands. “With me dressed like this.”

“We can’t let you go to your room to pack. It’d be too risky.”

“Great.”

“Hey,” Falnas whispered, trying to lighten the mood. “Think of it this way, a few minutes ago, you thought you were going to get your throat slit. This is an improvement, right?”

“I s’pose.”

He nodded at her. “Go on, just stay calm and say what we agreed. It’ll be fine.”

She stood up without a word and took a breath. Before she went down, Falnas touched her arm and said, “Thank you for doing this. You’re doing the right thing.”

Still saying nothing, she glided past Falnas and out the door. He heard her bare feet patter on the wooden stairs, and then heard muffled voices, first hers, light and soft, then his, crude and low, only a single word. Then she spoke again, and after a moment of silence, there was the sound of a chair being pushed back.

Yes! He was falling for it!

As he went up the stairs, Falnas heard him go past the corridor and muttered, “Stupid bitch is probably just imagining things. Nine damn it. I’ll give her something to imagine when I’m back downstairs.”

It made him shudder with anger and disgust at the same time.

But he went past, and that was what mattered, and he had the second dog with him. When he heard the man’s boots thump on the floor above him, he quickly, quietly darted downstairs and rejoined their new, unexpected ally. “Nicely done, girl,” he grinned at the serving girl. “Let’s go, we’ll meet Arska across the street when she’s done.”

Silently, the girl snatched a cloak off the pegs next to the door, and with Maul’s key, she opened the lock and led them outside. They crossed the street and from the alley opposite Maven’s house, they looked at the roof, Falnas holding the girl against him and rubbing her arms to keep her warm, the girl shivering and standing on one leg, occasionally switching, to keep the cold from freezing both her feet.

After what seemed like an eternity, they saw a shape emerge onto the ridge of the roof, then bend over and fiddle with the shingles, and from there, scoot over to the other house, climbing back down the way they’d come. Unabashed, Arska trotted across the street to meet them.

“He went down like a sack of potatoes,” she said with a grin. “Probably going to wake up in a few minutes and feel embarrassed for fainting dead-away like a little girl.”

Inconspicuously, so the servant girl didn’t see, Falnas permitted himself to reach out his hand and wipe the rivulet of blood from Arska’s collar.


	44. Keljarn: Stolen Vengeance

**KELJARN**

**Stolen Vengeance**

**City of Riften**

 

That bitch of an assassin matron had better not lied. He’d been bluffing, of sorts, about a scryer, because he didn’t know what exactly those people could and could not do, so he hadn’t been certain about whether or not he’d be able to find their rotten lot if he had to, but the woman had believed it, and that was enough.

‘From a mother’s heart’. Did this mean the murdering trollop had sent her own daughter out to kill his friends? Or was it just a figure of speech? Keljarn assumed the second, but you never knew with these inbred Daedra-worshipping maniacs. It didn’t matter, she’d die regardless. ‘Find it in your heart to let her live’, what a ridiculous plea coming from a sneaky, murdering coward. No, she wasn’t going to live. And she wasn’t going to die quickly, either. She was going to die awake and aware, living it consciously until the end. And she’d know why too. She’d be fully aware of the pain, and of the reason for it. Not that he’d enjoy it, quite the opposite. He’d do it because it simply had to be done.

Brown hair, ponytail, fringe. He hadn’t seen anyone that corresponded to the description yet, but it was still early in the day, and despite the grimness of the task at hand, he treasured the moments he had to just sit on the bench, eat an apple in the sun, and observe the bustle of the market.

Would he be able to hurt someone, knowing it was a sixteen-year-old girl? He knew that in theory, gender and age shouldn’t matter, after all no gender or age had the monopoly on immorality, but it’d be a serious mental hurdle he’d have to get over. He both anticipated and dreaded the task. No, not the task. The _duty_.

He thought again of Ria, telling him she was supposed to do great things. She had been. And these murderers had taken that chance away from her. No one knew her name, or what she could have been. She was just a dead Companions hopeful, in the world’s eyes. Just someone who ‘hadn’t made the cut’.

This infuriated him most of all. Kodlak had been a figure of great renown, but Ria and Njada had died without ever getting the chance to prove their worths. The thing they wanted most, to do good in the world, had been taken away from them.

And, perhaps, from him too. He hated himself after what he’d done to the assassin matron. It had been what she deserved, no question, but goodness was about more than deserving. Just because someone deserves something doesn’t make you a good person if you give it to them. Sometimes, even the exact opposite.

Was it the werewolf blood? Perhaps Hircine’s gift came with its own, darker changes. Perhaps it changed a man, both inside and out. If he hadn’t been a werewolf, would he have gone to such lengths – such depths – to get the woman to spill the beans? Maybe not. Maybe he would have found another way, a more reasonable way.

No, he thought to himself. It was too easy to blame it on the beast blood. It was just a way to justify what he’d done, and the greatest evildoers weren’t the ones that committed evil acts, but those who tried to justify them. No, he needed to own up to this and accept that what he’d done had been terrible.

Nine, what had he been thinking? Making rape threats, first to the bitch, then about every woman and child in their lair. Did the end really justify the means? There was no denying that some, if not all, of those assassins deserved to be stripped of all their self-worth and then of their lives, but sometimes those who give people what they deserve are as bad as those deserving. He’d have to atone somehow. Or maybe he was already atoning by feeling bad.

And feeling bad or no, it would have to wait after he’d given that little assassin mongrel her just desserts. Because about this, he couldn’t have any doubts. He couldn’t permit himself to have any.

He tossed the core of his apple into the water, getting a childish satisfaction from the splashing noise it made. He had a hankering for another one, or perhaps something a bit heartier. Some dried meat, perhaps, salted and smoked. Yes, that would be nice.

He rose and decided to push the feelings of guilt and self-loathing deep down. He’d deal with them after all this was over. First things first. That meant he deserved a treat. And in this case, it was a good thing to give a man what he deserved.

But there would be no treats, not right now. Unless you counted the call of duty as one. Walking past, only a few metres from him, was a teenage girl with darkened leather armour, daggers at her belt, a straight-cut fringe over her forehead, and a brown ponytail, bobbing up and down as she walked.

It was her. He knew it right away, and at the sight of her, his heart leapt. He’d found the killer of his Companions, saw her with his own eyes. She wouldn’t get away. Part of him wanted to walk up to her right then and there, swinging his axe and tearing open the abdomen of her leather armour, so he could watch her die holding her own stinking, steaming guts, but he knew he wouldn’t survive her for very long with all these guards frowning at the crowd through the holes in their helmets.

No, he had to follow her. The good thing about all this was that she had no idea who he was, or that he was looking for her. So he could basically just walk after her, in the open, as long as he didn’t act too suspiciously.

Siari, her name was. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t have a tongue. Would make her easy to identify even if the obvious get-up didn’t give it away. These rats knew people would leave them alone, so they flaunted their affiliation openly. But he wasn’t some nobody, he was a Companion, a chosen of Hircine, and he wasn’t afraid of some backstabbing sneak. Let these little people cower in their homes, let these lazy guards whisper in their barracks. Perhaps if more people stood up to this scum, then there’d be no people stabbed in the dead of night, no bodies in the street, left to find at dawn.

If more people were like him.

He followed her as closely as he dared, and saw another person gesturing at her, one of the obvious thieves, dressed in brown leather. He knew there was an active Guild in this city, but he didn’t know they were so stupid as to walk around with their stealing get-up on. Because while the guards didn’t move against those Brotherhood bastards, they sure did collar every thief they caught in the act, and strutting around with this kind of gear on made sure they had their eye on you all the time. She might as well be wearing a big sign that said, _THIEF HERE_.

The other was a rather sullen-looking Redguard girl, and the assassin’s body language spoke volumes. She wasn’t happy being hailed by this conspicuous moron. But it made Keljarn more than happy. The more bumbling fools she surrounded herself with, the easier it would be to track her.

The two young women, Stupid Girl and Rotten Girl, walked away from the market, past the smithy, and to the graveyard. He supposed it was fitting to lead her there. In more ways than one.

He kept following, watching Stupid Girl lead Rotten Girl to a mausoleum, a little structure small enough for them to notice him if he followed them inside, so he just kneeled by a random grave and kept his eye on the stone building. Nothing happened for a while, and he began to doubt that maybe this mausoleum hid an underground passage and they’d gone down it, leaving him without any chance of picking up their trail again.

He was going to lose her if he remained here… or would make a huge mistake by walking in on them when they were still in there? His gut contracted with worry, and indecision began to take hold of him, making him nervous and doubtful. If there was a passage of some sort, they’d be gone. If there wasn’t, he’d blow the whole thing. Nine damn it, what to do?

He gnawed at his lower lip, his eyes on the mausoleum. Move now, or wait? Damn it, damn it.

He had to move. They’d been there too long. Nine damn it, he’d lost her. Shit in his boots, he’d lost her! Damn, damn, _damn_!

He got up and ran to the mausoleum, grabbing hold of the doorway to turn inside, and smacked right into Stupid Girl, sending her flat on her ass, onto the sarcophagus.

“Where is she?”

The girl only raised her arm in front of her terrified face.

“ _Where_?”

“Sh… she…”

This was taking too long. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of the girl’s frizzy black hair, pulling her up to her feet as she yelped from the pain. With the other hand, he drew his serrated dagger and held it to her throat. “Listen to me. You don’t make a noise,” he growled at her, “and you’re going to show me where the other bitch went. I’ve got no beef with you or your stupid Guild, but if you don’t do as I say,” he pulled the girl closer and hissed in her ear, “I’m sawing your head off, slowly and painfully, is that clear?”

The girl’s head went up and down.

“Good. Where did she go?”

She pointed at the sarcophagus. “D… duh… down… in the…”

“How? Open it!”

“B… but…”

He pushed the knife harder against her throat. “I _said_ , open it!”

When she bent down, his knife still at her throat, Keljarn realized again that he was overdoing it with the threats. This girl was scared enough without being told she’d be slowly beheaded. She pushed a diamond-shaped mark and turned it a quarter, and with the sound of stone grating on stone, the sarcophagus lid slid back to reveal a ladder leading down.

Well, well. Seemed he’d found the headquarters of the Thieves’ Guild.

But before he went down, he had something important to say. “Listen,” he told the thief. “I need you to lead me to where she is. Then I promise you can leave. Just lead me there and you can go.”

“A… alright,” she croaked, knowing full well it was too late now anyway and that she might as well obey her captor until he set her free.

Descending the ladder was an ordeal, but thankfully, the girl didn’t need the knife to be kept at her throat constantly. She was a bit dumb, and easily intimidated, so she’d be completely docile.

Still, when they were at the foot of the ladder, he set the tip of his dagger against her back, just to remind her who was in charge.

“Walk.”

Her head hanging, the girl started shuffling forward, down the corridor, and opened a door, that led to some kind of underground tavern, a large cistern repurposed as a residence for more than a few people. There was a bar, several tables, a few storage crates, and even alcoves made for sleeping. A target for archery practice, dummies to practice pickpocketing on, the lot. The place was abandoned and smelled like watered-down shit, but they’d made it quite homely, if he had to be honest. Still, he wasn’t here to admire the sights.

“Keep moving.”

The girl did as she was told, leading him through the abandoned underground tavern, and to the door on the far side. She slowly opened it, and there she was.

Oh, this couldn’t have been any better. He’d never hoped for this. Not in his wildest dreams. No way to escape, no way to hide. It was like she was given to him on a silver platter.

She sat there, with two Guild cronies apparently interrogating her, or something, or whatever, in a chair, her wrists in irons.

He probably wasn’t the first to go after her, assassins make a lot of enemies, but there would be no escape for her. Not this time.

The Guild boys were talking to each other, one Breton with a shaved head, and one Dunmer with short hair standing up. It didn’t matter what they were doing or why, he just had to make sure of one thing before he let them go about his business.

“Hello,” he said, making sure he sounded casual enough. “Mind if I take this little bitch with me when you’re done?”

All heads turned to him, standing there with his knife still at the Redguard girl’s back. It was the first time his mark actually saw him. Looked him in the eye. He saw no recognition on her face, just trepidation. Good. It’d make it all the sweeter to drop the anvil on her.

“An ‘oo the fuck’re you then, twatwaffle?” the Breton barked. “You fuckin’ bonkers, mate, forcin’ your way in ‘ere?”

Hm, that was a hostile reaction. He figured it was only normal. After all these thieves didn’t know who he was and what he wanted. All they saw was some guy they didn’t know, forcing one of their own at daggerpoint to let him in. So he stayed calm and said, “I don’t give a shit what you want with this little murdering rat.” He had to make it clear that his demand was non-negotiable though. “All I’m telling you, and I’m not asking, is that when you’re done with her, she comes with me. Alive, and still aware of her surroundings.” It was alright if she was injured or otherwise impaired, as long as she was lucid enough to realize what he would do to her and why. He once again looked briefly in her brown eyes, wide with fear, and savoured the sight of this pretty girl with the ugly heart, her face so terrified. She’d apparently taken a blow to the face, her cheek swelling.

The thieves didn’t seem inclined to be cooperative, the Dunmer snorting, “As if we’re going to just hand her over to some half-baked snow-eater we don't know. Turn around and walk away while you still can, fur frotter.”

“Look,” Keljarn said, ignoring the slurs. “I’ve got some very personal things to discuss with this little backstabber. Nothing that concerns you.” And just to show that he wasn’t looking for a fight, he willingly gave up his advantage of having the Redguard girl hostage, and took his dagger off her back, giving her a firm push. “You go ahead and... do whatever it is you want to do to her, all I'm saying is, turn her over to me when you're done or else.”

The response was predictable, but deplorable. As if he was some random nobody off the streets, his demand was met with disdain. “Look at that,” the Breton said with a chuckle. “This dunghead comes to threaten us in our own 'ome. In't that adorable.”

Meanwhile, the Dunmer motioned towards Keljarn’s erstwhile hostage. “Out.” The girl did as she was told, but as she brushed by him, Keljarn stuck a small purse of gold in her pouch. If he wanted to become a better person and atone, he should start today.

Maybe these two would respond to a less coercive approach. “You're right,” Keljarn said, trying something else. “That wasn't very courteous of me. Let me rephrase. My business with her is completely separate from yours. And I'd sincerely appreciate it if, when your business is concluded, you let me take her with me. None of it will come back on you, I guarantee it.”

He noticed an exchange of glances between the Dunmer and the soon-to-be-dead sack of guts and blood in the chair, and they both looked suitably puzzled, although, when the mer looked back at him, Keljarn fancied he could see him struggling, as if he was trying to remember him.

And at that moment, Keljarn he realized he should remember the mer too. But from where? He’d seen that face before. Damn it, where?

“Well mate,” the Breton went on, his face devoid of any attempt at reminiscence. “Your business with her isn't our business either. An' that's why we feel no need to 'elp you. So bugger off to wherever you came from an' we won't rob you, your family, an' your little dog blind over the comin' months.” With a nudge of his chin at Keljarn’s axe, he continued, “an' don't think that axe scares us. We're thieves, an' you're on our turf. We know this place like the back of our 'ands. You'd blunder into ten traps before you'd even get close to us.”

Threatening him was a bad idea, but Keljarn decided to err on the side of caution for now, and again appealed to their reason, his eyes unable to stay off the captured girl for long. Her flesh would feel so soft when he cut it.

“Like I said,” he tried again. “We got off on the wrong foot due to my overeagerness, but I'm not here for violence. I'm asking for a favour.” He repeated his claims, to once again impress on them how little he was asking, pointing his dagger at her. “Her. That's all I ask. Doesn't cost you a thing, doesn't take any effort. All you have to do is let me take her with me after you're done.” Talos’ sake, you two, quit being such sticks-in-the-mud. He had half a mind to leap at them and chop them in half, but on the other hand, they weren’t the ones who’d murdered his friends.

“An' I'm tellin' you that ain't happenin'.”

Stubborn bastards. Perhaps trying to confront them with the inevitability of the final outcome would work, in a more physical way. So he slowly came forward, sheathing his knife and showing his empty hands to show he wasn’t here for violence – at least not the heated kind. He knew full well the thieves were too far to stop him, and that keeping their distance would be the wisest course of action for them. “I just want to talk, is all,” he repeated with a broad smile. “Look, how ‘bout I help you with your interrogation? Because that’s clearly what you’re doing.” His heart began to speed up. He was so close he could smell her. Her sweat, her anxiety, her anger. She would smell of so much more by the time he was done with her, by the time she was done paying for Ria and Njada and Kodlak. He saw her give the Dunmer a scared glance. Oh, no, little girl, they can’t help you now.

The thieves had decided to risk it, and come closer, until they all found themselves around the chair. “I’m sure we don’t need your ‘elp, mate,” the bald guy said. It didn’t matter what they needed, or what they wanted. Keljarn would help them regardless. He remembered Ria, dying in his arms, her last words so honest and useless. Remembered Njada lying splayed on the bed in her night clothes, blood pooling in her navel. Remembered Kodlak, dead in his room, which he had turned into a complete shambles by defending himself to the last… how had this little wisp of a girl managed to overpower him? She’d taken the others by surprise, true, but Kodlak?

Then he got the image of Aela in his mind, and knew that if the dice had fallen differently, it could have been her dying in his arms, coughing up blood and saying her last words, equally honest and equally useless.

The little vermin would pay.

“Please, allow me,” he said, keeping a relaxed and friendly face, but burning up in grief and anger behind it. “So, little throatcutter,” he said, kneeling next to the assassin. Now he was close enough to see every hair in her eyebrows, every fold in her lips, every capillary in her sclera. She tried to pull away from him, breathing hard and terrified through her nose, but there was nowhere to go. “You don’t look like I’d imagined,” he told her, but made sure he said quickly enough, “Not that that will make me think twice.” It was time to tell her just who he was and why he’d pursued her. “And you probably don’t know who I am, do you?”

Of course she didn’t, and she couldn’t say so either, from what Keljarn had heard. On the one hand, it was a good thing he wouldn’t have to listen to her desperate denial and tearful pleading, but on the other hand… he wished he could have.

It was time.

“I’ve been looking for you, though.” Oh how he longed to see the recognition on her face, and see it change to utter terror. “Came all the way from Jorrvaskr to find you.”

And then it happened. That moment he’d been waiting for. That brief flash of remembrance, and then the mask of naked, unhidden panic setting in, the fear taking over her entire body, the realization that what he would do to her would be the most terrifying thing she could ever imagine. The payment for her crimes, the misdeeds she thought she’d keep getting away with. The confrontation with the knowledge that now, in this moment, after so long, it… was… all…

… over.

“ _That_ turns you white, doesn’t it?” he snarled at her, feeling the euphoria take hold. “You know what happened at Jorrvaskr, don’t you? What you did?” Everything, the entire world, had shrunk to both of them, nothing around them, only she and him, her face drawn with terror, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. He lived them moment so intensely that he could literally see the droplets of sweat being pushed out of the pores on her forehead, between the messy strands of her fringe. And then came the tears, big drops of clear liquid first standing on her lower eyelids, then streaking down across her cheeks.

That’s it, you little rat. Feel what they felt. Know that you’re about to die, very slowly and very painfully.

He didn’t even hear the one thief say to the other, “this is messed up, mate.”

No, she’d have to drink the chalice to the bottom. “Their names were Njada, Ria and Kodlak,” Keljarn growled at her, his anger growing even more, until he had to restrain himself from strangling her with his bare hands, pushing his thumb through her eye sockets until they burst and his fingernails dug into her soft, warm brain, the little vermin dying blind and in horrible agony as she felt his fingers pulp the soft brain tissue, her cerebral and bodily functions falling away one by one. But no, she would experience it all until the end.

“Njada was difficult and petty, but that was because she felt ignored and passed over,” he said between clenched teeth. “Kodlak was a wise, proud man who tried his best, all his life, to keep the Companions honourable, and on the path of right. And Ria...” Nine, poor Ria. “Ria was a kind, hard-working jewel of a girl, who was going to do great things...” His lower lip trembled in both hatred and sorrow, and he said to the rat, “You've taken all that away from them, but I want you to know who they were. People, not just names on a list. And they bled to death, or got stabbed through the heart just because you thought it was _just a job_.”

“Mate,” he heard the Breton say. “I dunno what 'appened at Jorrvaskr, but you clearly aren't thinkin' straight now. How 'bout we all take a second to calm down an' clear all this up, yeah?”

“I don't need a second,” Keljarn grunted at the thief. He might as well not have been there. All he cared about was the little maggot in the chair. “You murdered my friends, innocent people, you dirty shit stain, and I'm going to make you remember it for the rest of your short, pain-filled life.” From his kneeling position, he looked up at the two thieves. “You're interrogating her, right?”

“Yes,” Falnas said, “but - ”

“Let me give you a hand,” he said to them, only vaguely aware that his cheer made him sound like a man who’d lost his mind.

It was time. Time to start. Those thieves wouldn’t stop him. If they really decided to defend this pathetic little thing, then he would deal with them, but if not, they could always look on.

He took out his knife again, and set the tip in the wood, right by the little rat’s left hand. He took hold of her fingers – he was actually _touching_ her, she was his, she’d never get away now! – and pressed her little finger against the wood, next to the tip of the knife. Even his knife was hungry for her blood.

_For Ria._

He pushed the handle down, and the cutting edge of the blade touched the girl’s flesh, then went through it, first drawing blood, and then crunching through the bone, Keljarn feeling the vibrations in his hand as the iron cracked and snapped the fragile finger, then cut through the last strip of skin and left the digit lying on the wood, blood from the stump spraying over it as she screamed and shrieked, kicking her feet and banging her head against the back of the chair. The shrieks were hysterical, loud and terrified, and as her mouth hung wide open, Keljarn could see the sickening, disgusting little nub of soft, pink flesh that had once been her tongue, sitting in the red cavern of her throat.

The next moment, the unmistakable sour, sharp smell of urine entered his nostrils, and he saw a dark, warm stain spreading on her breeches, hot piss running down her legs.

_That’s it, little cunt. Take it all. All the pain, all the fear, all the shame. You deserve every bit of it and more._

He took hold of the little finger, now a dead, still-warm piece of meat, slick with blood, but before he could take off another one, the bald bastard gave him a hard shove, shouting, “What the fuck, mate? You lost your fuckin’ mind? This isn’t a fuckin’ torture chamber!”

It was a hard shove, and still kneeling, Keljarn lost his balance and had to stumble back to his feet. Ignoring the thief, he held up the finger, making sure she got a good look at it, the dead, severed chunk of flesh. She was still mewling in pain as he yelled, “See this? This is only the beginning.”

The finger felt no more pain, and he sent it where the rest of her body would end up when he was done, sending it flying through the air into the shit water surrounding them. Hatred and the sweetness of vengeance being fulfilled took hold of him when he saw her eyes, following the dead chunk of her as it went through the air and sent up a little splash, sinking down into the slop that the people of Riften pushed out of their assholes. And the wail of pure grief she let out when the finger went down drove him even more mad with terrible satisfaction.

“You’re fuckin’ mad’s what you are,” the bald thief continued to yell at him, Keljarn not even registering his presence. He made to shoulder past him, but the Breton didn’t budge. He was starting to get on Keljarn’s nerves. Again he made to push past him, but still the bastard didn’t budge.

“You’re _done_ ,” he shouted at Keljarn, his nose only inches from his, even though Keljarn was a head taller. “You’re gonna fuckin’ turn an’ leave. Whatever the fuck you want with ‘er, it’s _done_.”

Keljarn grabbed the thief by the collar with one hand. He only needed one to send the obstinate fool out of his way and into the water.

“Try it, you crazy bastard. Go on, do whatever you want, but _you’re not layin’ one more finger on that girl._ ”

Oh, but he was just getting started. His fingers gripped the collar of the thief more tightly.

But it wasn’t the bald guy that went into the water.

Keljarn felt his jaw go slack when he saw the girl leap out of her chair, propelling herself forward and diving into the water in a leap so far it wasn’t humanly possible.

_No!_

_NO!_

Then he saw the Dunmer kneeling by the chair. What had he done? What _had he done?!_

His eyes went from the ripples in the water back to the kneeling mer, rage overtaking him. “What did you do?” he heard himself shout. “ _What did you do?!_ ”

“What you were doing is wrong, man,” the Dunmer said, standing up to face him. “You were going to – ”

No! No! No! He refused to give up. Not even letting the bastard finish, he leapt off the walkway, diving into the filthy water, after the assassin, the cold water making his lungs feel like they would collapse. He opened his eyes, despite the terrible putrescence of the water, but saw only brown. He kicked his feet, pushing himself forward, clawing the water with his hands, hoping to feel something, a foot, an ankle, a piece of fabric, anything he could grab hold of. Nine damn it, no, no, _no_!

His hands swept through the water, and there it was! Leather! His fingers closed around it as he heard himself let out an underwater cry of triumph, air bubbles brushing past his face. He pulled, and the ankle he was holding came closer.

 _You’re not going anywhere, little bitch_.

Another pull, and he reeled her in even closer. His lungs were about to burst, but it didn’t matter. He would drown before he –

Pain exploded in his face as something hit him so hard in the nose he felt the cartilage break, and reflexively, his fingers opened, the boot slipping out from between them. For that one brief moment, the world was only pain, then he clawed once again at nothing but water. All the air had been kicked from his lungs, and his body did not allow him to stay under longer. And despite how hard he tried, his legs kicked him upwards. He broke the surface of the water, took a lungful of air, and went down again, knowing it would be useless. She’d gotten away. She was gone! _Nine damn it she was gone!_

He stayed under a while longer, fruitlessly snatching at the water, but it was futile.

She was gone. She was gone, she was gone, _she was gone!_

Again his head came above water, and for a few seconds, he could do nothing but roar in rage, pounding his fists on the surface of the water, bellowing out all the anger, all the frustration, all the hate, all the failure. Again and again his fists came down, sending the shit water splashing up, until finally, he had indulged in his rage long enough and he just hung in the water, panting with his eyes screwed shut.

“Hey, friend. How ‘bout you come out of that slop? Come on, we’ve got a fire you can dry yourself by.”

He opened his eyes and saw the two thieves, still standing there.

Briefly, the urge to haul himself up the ledge, shift and then tear them apart arose in him, but he no longer had any rage left to take out his frustrations on other people.

“She’s gone, mate,” the bald guy said flatly. “Come on.” He held out his hand. “I’ve got no idea what the bloody blazes got into you, but whatever it was, it’s over now, yeah?”

“While you dry up by the fire,” the Dunmer said, “you can explain what on Red Mountain just happened.”

The fight was out of him, the rage making place for the utter emptiness of defeat. He was no longer too proud to accept the offer these two made. Letting himself flop to the ledge, he grabbed hold of their hands and let them pull him out.

“We’ll even arrange a new set o’ clothes for you, ‘ow ‘bout that.”

Whatever. She was gone.

He followed them to their tavern-type place, and after a few minutes, found himself in his undergarments, wrapped in a blanket by the fire, a steaming bowl of broth in his hands.

“So,” the Dunmer said, sitting down next to him. “I saw something in your eyes back there. Something that made me realize you’re not some crazy butcher. Care to tell me about what happened at Jorrvaskr? I’m Falnas by the way.”

“Keljarn. It’s simple,” Keljarn simply said, blowing on the steaming broth. “That girl sneaked into the hall, and murdered three innocent people. _Good_ people. Two young initiates who never did anything wrong to anyone. And our leader.”

“Yeah,” the Dunmer said with a nod. “I heard some nasty things went down at Jorrvaskr. That your leader died. I remember you now, you were looking for someone that night. But… I didn’t know about the two Initiates. Must have been hard.”

He let his eyes go to the thief, of course, that’s where he remembered him from, and then back to the broth. “You don’t know the half of it. One of them, she…” tears welled up in his eyes, and he no longer had the energy to be too proud to let them fall. “… died in my arms. Assassinated for no reason. Just because she happened to be there. She was…” he looked back at the Dunmer, “… special, mer. Just… special.”

“I understand you were close,” the elf said, nodding. “I’ve seen it once before, you know, eyes like yours.”

Keljarn looked up at him again. Maybe this mer understood more than he’d thought at first.

“Guy who lost his entire family to an arsonist. He had eyes like you had just now. Of a good man driven mad by grief.”

“I’m not mad,” Keljarn said flatly.

“You were then. I can’t begin to understand your pain, friend, but what you did back there… that was a madman’s work.”

He was right. There was no point trying to deny it. He took a sip of the broth, but the salty liquid burned his lips and tongue. His nose pounded with pain. He’d tried to feel how it was, but one touch on the crushed mess had made him wince in so much pain, he knew not to do it again. The Dunmer had asked the bald guy to go fetch a certain someone, telling him she’d take care of his nose.

“I don’t know if you want my advice,” the Dunmer said, ladling himself a bowl full of chicken broth, “but I’m going to give it anyway.”

“I’m not going anywhere for the time being,” Keljarn said with a shrug. He didn’t care much for the mer’s advice, but he’d humour him.

“Good. Here’s what I think. What happened to your friends was awful, I can’t even begin to imagine, but… would they want you to give up your humanity to avenge them?”

Despite himself, Keljarn realized it was a good question. He’d already given away part of his humanity to Hircine, and perhaps he really needed to keep what was left. Because none of his dead Companions would have wanted him to turn into a monster to avenge them.

“What you were doing,” the dark elf continued, “wasn’t justice, even though it probably felt that way. It wasn’t even vengeance. It was… complete abandonment. Surrender to the darkest side of what we are, man and mer. And if you’d carried on with this, then how would you differ from your victim?”

“It would have been righteous,” Keljarn said, knowing full well he was lying to himself.

“You don’t believe that,” Falnas shook his head. “I know you don’t. Part of you knows the truth. That what you were doing there was pure indulgence. Letting your thirst for vengeance turn you into something… inhuman.”

“So what,” Keljarn grunted. “I should just let her go?”

The Dunmer blew on the broth, sending steam swirling up. “Not what I said. But you should exact justice, not vengeance, and certainly not pure brutality. Think of it this way,” he said, cocking his head at Falnas. “Imagine you went all the way with what you did. That we hadn’t stopped you. Siari would be lying in bloody chunks, and sure, you’d feel satisfaction at that moment.”

“Yes. Your point?”

The mer was unperturbed. “Let me finish. But after a while, you’d start to realize. Siari doesn’t feel any pain anymore. She’d be long released. And your friends would still be dead. And what would be left? Just you. You and the realization of the horrible things you’ve done. All the rest, all the others, dead and gone. And you, alone with the guilt, the self-hate, the pain. And for what? For a few fleeting moments of sadistic revenge.”

The mer was right. The Nine-damned son of a bitch was right.

“Because in the end, man, all you can ask yourself is, ‘did _I_ do the right thing?’. Not what others did, not what happened to others, but what _you_ did. And whether or not it was right. And when you come to the time when only that question matters, don’t let your only answers be excuses and denial.”

Keljarn had nothing to say to that. Nothing at all. Here he was, being schooled by a lowly thief. Shame came over him when he realized the mer was right about everything. It was hard to admit, but… “You’re right. I… think you saved both her and me back there.”

The Dunmer gave him a friendly smile and briefly put his hand on Keljarn’s shoulder. “Glad to hear it. So what now?”

Even though he had an entirely new outlook on the situation now, one thing hadn’t changed. “I’ll still pursue her. Catch her, bring her to justice, maybe kill her.” No, not maybe. “ _Probably_ kill her. But not… no more of the hurting. You’re right, I won’t make my fallen Companions proud by becoming a torturer.”

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to let her stand trial, but yes,” the mer admitted, “it’d probably be the same as killing her. Her kind end up on the end of a rope eventually.”

Keljarn managed a lopsided grin. “A bit like your kind, then?”

With a chuckle, the mer answered, “The guard’s so used to us now, that when they catch one of us, they just roll their eyes and chuck him in jail for a week or two.” His face darkened. “Although lately, with all the problems, we’ll be lying low for a while.”

“’Ere she is, mate. Get yer nose fixed in no time, yeah?”

The Breton had returned, and with him, an Elven woman in robes and a cowl.

“This ‘ere’s Galathil,” the Breton said. “She’ll help with that broken nose. Give you an entirely new face if you want,” he chuckled, the Dunmer laughing with him, and explaining, “Some people believe Galathil can change your face entirely. Which is, of course, completely silly.”

The nose-rearranging was a painful and uncomfortable, but thorough affair, with heavy use of magic involved, much more than the healing cantrips Keljarn had at his disposal.

As he sat there, getting his broken nose more or less set, Keljarn thought over the words the thief had said to him.

Siari hadn’t been the only one who’d been saved.


	45. Siari: Bound Until Death

 

**SIARI**

**Bound Until Death**

**Outside Sanctuary**

 

Home again. Although it was not what it once was. During the ride back, she’d had plenty of time to think, plenty of time to work out theories as to what had happened and why. She couldn’t explain the Companion bastard yet, but the whole business with the Thieves’ Guild was clear as day. She knew how that had been arranged.

And who had arranged it.

But before she could confront her dear, dear ‘mother’, she had another Mother to see.

“Ahh, the Listener returns!” Cicero squealed in his terribly annoying voice. He bowed so deep he almost fell over, his hands making flourishes at his sides. On the small table before him was a collection of aromatic herbs and oils, which he was probably using to prepare the Night Mother’s… preservative fluids. “Forgive me for staining your dark beauty with my lowly presence.”

He’d have to take a break. With a quick swat of her hand, she shooed him away, and he promptly left, making more insincere praise tumble from his lips.

Siari waited for him to leave and take his idiocy with him, then stood before the Night Mother.

 _Cicero is a devoted servant, but sometimes I wonder…_ the voice sounded in her head, gentle and motherly.

Yes, Siari would wonder about him too, if she were in the Night Mother’s place.

_Your mission ended in ambush, it would seem. It seems quite clear who is responsible, at least in part._

Yes, more than a bit clear.

_The question, of course, is did the self-proclaimed head of your self-proclaimed family know what was about to happen… This I cannot see at this moment. Her heart is so clouded with turmoil, it is difficult for me to divine._

Oh, she must have had an inkling.

_A scent clings to you, my Listener._

Warmth flushed up Siari’s body. She should have washed before presenting herself, damn it. She’d been swimming in shit water, the smell soaked deep into her clothes and hair and skin, and she presented herself to the Night Mother with this stink on her? What had she been thinking?

_The smell of one of Sithis’ brethren._

What?

_It is too faint to identify, but… it would seem you encountered one of the agents of a fellow Daedra Prince._

What, one of the thieves? That was too preposterous for words. Or maybe…

If that was true, this was bad news indeed. The torture-happy Nord who’d cut off her finger, could it be? If this was an agent of one of the Daedra Princes, she was in for a heap of trouble.

_I must investigate this further. Until then, my Listener, tread very carefully._

Oh, she would. No doubt about that.

_Perhaps you should go see Astrid now. She will doubtless be waiting for your report… or for you not to return at all. Observe her reactions carefully. Do not confront her too quickly, this will only make her more suspicious, and depending on how guilty she is in what has transpired, she will only be more cautious and employ more subterfuge. And if she is mostly innocent, confronting her will only turn her against you._

A short silence fell from the Night Mother. Siari respected it, how could she do anything else?

_Regardless, even though the fog surrounding her, I can still feel great affection for you. It may not be too late._

That would all depend on what Astrid had to say for herself. Her reaction on seeing her would already tell a lot. If she was surprised to see her ‘daughter’ return, that would tell her all she needed to know.

“Siari, you’re back,” Gabriella said cheerfully as she came out of the Night Mother’s chambers. The Dunmer’s cheer soon faded when Siari came within smelling distance. She pulled back and waved her hand in front of her nose. “Uagh, Siari, dear, did you suddenly decide to save your last poop and dive after it? You smell like… well, poop.”

Siari made an embarrassed face. She was well aware of how she smelled. It was always nice to see Gabriella, her bunkmate, but now, smelling like a sewer, it was rather embarrassing.

“You should _really_ wash,” Gabriella said, wrinkling her nose.

There would be time for cleaning later. She pointed at Astrid’s door.

With a snort, Gabriella said, “Astrid’s away for an hour or so, and even if she wasn’t, she’d feed you to Arnbjorn for traipsing into her office smelling like _that_.” Hm, good point. She’d wanted to just barge into Astrid’s office and observe her reaction, but if she wasn’t there, she wasn’t there. Still, she’d have to get the drop on her. It was crucial to see how she reacted on seeing her alive.

“Come on, I’ll draw you a bath,” Gabriella said with a smile, nudging her head at the part of the cave that served as the bathroom. “Because girl, you’re stinking the place up.”

Siari had to grin at that, and she followed Gabriella in the bathroom, letting her bunkmate close and lock the door behind her. After all, Gabriella was the resident alchemist, and the extracts she brewed up weren’t all lethal; she made some wonderfully fragrant oils as well, and using them made Siari feel clean, fresh and fabulous.

They both filled buckets from the natural underground spring bubbling up inside the bathroom-cave and filled the massive kettle suspended over a wood pile. “Give me those stinky leathers,” Gabriella said after she’d lit the fire under the kettle, holding one hand out to her and using the other to pinch her nose shut. “I’d rather burn them but since they’ve cost the Brotherhood a lot of dosh, I’ll just throw them in the pond outside and let them soak for a day.”

Siari peeled the leathers off her and handed them to Gabriella. “Tri _-bunal_ , these stink!”

Looking down at herself, she noticed her undergarments were brown and so stiff with dried slop she had to almost break them off.

“And these are going into the fire,” Gabriella let Siari know, immediately adding deed to word and sending her underoos up in foul-smelling smoke, the fire under the pot greedily eating them up. “Get in.”

The uncomfortable feeling of her bare behind on the cold, hard wood was instantly forgotten with the pure bliss of the warm water splashing into the tub, bucket after bucket, even though it turned brown almost instantly. Gabriella had a mountain flower extract ready to pour in, but she returned it to her pocket and said, “Uh… yes, we’ll be needing more water, then.”

She sat there, enjoying the water’s heat, foul as it was, her eyes closed.

“So, how’d the job go?” Gabriella asked to make conversation as she hauled more buckets from the spring to the big kettle on the fire.

Siari made an exaggerated sniffing motion and pinched her nose shut.

“Yes, yes, dirty, we’ve established that, but… apart from that?”

She held out her hand and made a scribbling motion.

“Oh. Of course.” Gabriella brought the bookstand near, cut down to half-size so that Siari could write from the bath tub. Such luxury.

She wrote,

_went to shit_

_guild was rotten_

_unknown guy showed up_

_crazy bastard_

_tried to kill me_

_escaped_

_revenge probably_

“Revenge?” Gabriella repeated, reading the paper with a pensive face. Revenge for what?

_jorrvaskr_

“Mm.” Gabriella fell silent, thinking. “That’s not good.”

Siari shook her head in agreement.

“Any idea how he found you?” Gabriella asked, tearing off the paper to make room for a new one, and chucking it into the fire.

She shook her head again, hugging her knees as the water slowly went cold.

Carefully, Gabriella suggested, “Maybe you were… well… sloppy?”

Oh no. No, no, no. She hadn’t been sloppy. Gabriella had a lot of nerve to suggest that. She felt her face go angry, and she wrote, in big bold letters,

_NO_

“Alright, alright. I’m just… checking all the possibilities.”

It hadn’t been sloppiness. She had to get that ‘possibility’ out of the way then and there. She wasn’t going to implicate Astrid here, but Gabriella needed to know, and know very clearly, that,

_SOMEONE TOLD_

Gabriella’s face went slack with amazement. Whether it had been Astrid or not, it hadn’t been Gabriella, Siari determined. You couldn’t fake this kind of surprise. Not Gabriella, at least.

“Are you saying someone… betrayed you? That’s… a serious suspicion to have,” Gabriella breathed. “I mean, I can’t possibly think of anyone who’d – ”

Siari took her other hand out of the water and made a dismissive gesture.

Gabriella’s mouth fell open even wider. “ _Siari!_ What happened to your hand?”

Oh right, that. Nobody even noticed bandages around their brothers’ and sisters’ limbs anymore, but the wrapping around her left hand had come undone, and was now hanging from her wrist by a single loop. The slop had washed mostly off, and now her hand was clearly bright red, the stump of finger a red, wrinkly hole on top of the knuckle, yellow fluid forming balls of crust in the wound.

This would be impossible to downplay, so she simply pointed her thumb at the fire that had burned the paper she’d written on.

“That guy did this to you?”

She nodded.

Gabriella grabbed Siari’s wrist and pulled her hand closer, the strength of her grip clearly indicating she had no desire or patience for resistance.

“Siari, you should have told me about this right away. You should have let this get treated. It’s an open wound, including a broken bone, exposed to all manner of horrible nastiness for hours. It’s badly infected, see?”

Gabriella pointed at the underside of Siari’s arm, slick with water. Clearly visible on her pale skin were angry, curved red lines going from her wrist to her elbow. The palm of her hand was entirely red. Siari attempted a shrug, trying to tell Gabriella it was nothing serious, but she wouldn’t have it.

“No, Siari, don’t start that tough-girl idiocy with me. We both know you’re not fooling anyone. Besides, an infection like that can kill you or make you lose the arm if you let it spread.”

Gabriella was genuinely angry, but whether it was because of what had happened to Siari, out of concern, or because she felt personally insulted for not being told about the injury right away was unclear.

Gabriella also wasn’t prone to exaggerating. If she said it was a dangerous infection, it probably was. Doubt sneaked into her chest and her heart began to beat more rapidly. Oh Sithis, what if it was too late? What if she was going to lose the arm, or die? Maybe the guy _had_ killed her already, he just didn’t know it yet.

“Don’t make that face,” Gabriella said curtly. “You’re not going to die just yet. It can still be stopped, but what if I hadn’t seen it, hmm? Would you have waited until the infection set your entire arm on fire? Or until I woke up next to you one morning and found you dead in your bed?” She shook her head, letting out an angry sigh, turning Siari’s hand over in hers. “This is just so irresponsible of you.”

Siari could only make a guilty face at that.

“Get out of the tub. I’ll change the water and then I’m taking care of that.”

Siari got out, hugging herself, her teeth chattering against the cold air on her wet skin, and waited for Gabriella to first pull the stopper on the bath tub, sending the dirty water back into the spring via a pipe in the underside, and then to throw buckets full of hot water in the tub until the kettle was empty.

‘In, scoot. Don’t want you dying of a cold before the infection can get you.”

After letting some drops of the mountain flower extract fall in, Gabriella undid the bolt on the door, then turned back to Siari. “You sit there, and don’t move until I’m back with my supplies, got it?”

Siari could do no more than nod. As she heard the door open and close, she closed her eyes and just enjoyed the hot water and the sound of the fire behind her. She briefly sneaked a peek and saw the bathwater remained mostly clear. Good. It’d probably go right back to brown the second she rinsed her hair, but that was something to worry about later. It smelled wonderful, the mountain flower extract perfuming it and gently removing the shit smell from her nostrils.

After no more than a minute, the door opened and closed and Gabriella come back in, holding a basket under her arm. It wasn’t Nazir or Arnbjorn or Festus taking advantage of the unbolted door to sneak a peek, thankfully. Or even worse, _Cicero_.

“Sit up,” Gabriella said, kneeling next to her. Taking Siari’s hand, she uncovered the basket and took a good look at the wound. “It’s bad,” she grunted. “Will probably hurt like a branding iron for a while, but the infection’s not too far yet.”

Siari watched as Gabriella mixed several powders into a mortar, added a single bright green succulent plant stem, crushing it through the powder with a pestle, and finally sprinkled in some kind of gooey black oil, stirring it vigorously until it became a dark green paste. With a small wooden spatula, she scooped up some of the paste and slathered it all over the wound in a thick layer, the goop making Siari wince as it came into painful contact with the weeping remains of her little finger. After inspecting it to make sure the gunk was smeared on thickly enough, Gabriella wrapped her hand in clean bandages.

“These get changed every twelve hour.” Locking angry eyes with Siari, she added, “ _No_ exceptions.”

Siari could only nod meekly.

“By the way,” Gabriella said, finishing the wrapping, “I bumped into Astrid. She’ll be here to talk to you in a moment.”

Ah, damn it, no!

Gabriella hadn’t seen the flash of frustration on Siari’s face, still looking intently at her throbbing hand. Damn it, this ruined everything. She wanted to punch ignorant pseudo-helpful Gabriella with her good hand, but that wouldn’t help anyone. Certainly not Gabriella. _Fuck_. The woman was lovely, but she’d just ruined Siari’s possibly only chance to see Astrid’s genuine reaction to her return. _Damn it._

The bandages were wrapped, and Gabriella held up a small vial to Siari’s lips. “Drink.”

Siari made to take the vial in her own hand, but Gabriella pushed it back down. “Needs to be in small portions. One sip at a time.” The Dunmer held the vial to her lips and tilted it slightly in intervals, to let the liquid leak into her mouth in small sips. It tasted of mint leaves and thick vegetable oil. “This’ll help with the infection that’s already internal.”

It wasn’t the most dignified way to drink medicine, but if it helped, fine. Siari drank the entire vial, slowly, like a good little girl, holding her head back to make sure it ran easily down past the fleshy nub of her tongue and into her throat.

“Good. This’ll make sure your arm doesn’t turn into a searing, wailing chunk of fiery agony overnight.”

Despite still being angry over her missed chance with Astrid, Siari gave Gabriella a smile and a nod.

“Next time, you come straight to me with this kind of thing, that clear?”

Siari made her face look guilty even though she didn’t feel that way at all, and looked down.

She felt Gabriella’s fingers tap on her wet shoulder and her voice said, “Come on, don’t give me that look.” Siari could tell she was smiling back. “I’m just concerned, that’s all. Wouldn’t want to see you lose a limb or your life. We care about you too much for that.”

She cared about her family too, but was it in the same way? Did she care for Gabriella like Gabriella cared for her? It was a strange thing to ask oneself, and she hadn’t asked herself questions like those for as long as she could remember. Before, she’d just assumed that people saying they cared meant they could be more easily deceived or manipulated, or were simply more loyal. But these last few days, with everything that had happened, the scares she’d gotten, the doubts that had overcome her, she wasn’t all that certain anymore. Maybe people saying they cared meant something more. Something that wasn’t just useful to her.

“You alright? Seen a ghost?”

Siari shook her head, banning the doubts from her mind, and just flitted her fingers in front of her eyes, making a ditzy face.

“Oh, right,” Gabriella grinned. “One of those moments.”

The water was getting cold again, and Siari quickly slid forward, submerging her head and rinsing her hair, and got out, Gabriella wrapping the big cotton towel around her. After a few sniffs, the Dunmer made a content face and said, “Much better. No young man in Falkreath Hold would be safe from you, smelling like that.”

Siari had her doubts about that, but still, it was a massive improvement. Wrapped in the big brown towel, her hair wet, Siari gave Gabriella a smile in thanks, stomping her bare feet against the cold.

“Brought you fresh clothes too,” Gabriella said, nudging her chin at the garments on a nearby stool. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

Siari made her smile broaden and freed one arm from the towel, bopping a fist against her chest as a sign of gratitude.

“That’s alright,” Gabriella said, “You can repay me in taking over my room-cleaning duty tomorrow. Oh, and before I forget, Astrid has a new job for you. I’ve taken the liberty to do some preparatory work, so come see me before you leave.” With that, she exited, taking her basket with her.

Towelling herself quickly, Siari stepped into the underpants Gabriella had left, laced them, and wrapped the breast-bindings around herself, shifting from foot to foot against the cold. Goosebumps stood out on her skin, but better goosebumped and clean, than the way she’d been before. She pulled the stopper and let the dirty water rush back into the spring, to be taken along with the clean water, back underground. Where it went, she had no idea. It was funny to think about. Her bathwater probably made a long journey underground, for miles and miles, and ended up in a river somewhere, after seeing all kinds of underground vistas that no human being would ever lay eyes on.

The door opened, and Siari reflexively snatched up the towel and held it in front of her so it hid her only modestly garmented body, in case the intruder wasn’t Gabriella returning to pick something up, but one of the more male members of the family. She wasn’t a fan of incest, even if it was only of the visual kind.

“It’s only me.”

It turned out not to be Gabriella, nor any of the family members who urinated while standing up.

Siari didn’t rightly know how to react to Astrid’s presence. She’d hoped to surprise her, but with Gabriella stupidly announcing her presence already, it was Astrid who got the drop on her, rather than the other way around.

All Siari could manage was a semi-confident head bob.

“How’d your job go?” Astrid asked, leaning against the door post, looking completely relaxed. Damn it, she’d had time to prepare herself.

Still, Siari frowned and shook her head.

“Really? What happened?”

Siari dropped the towel and pointed at the clothes on the stool, giving Astrid an impatient look. She wasn’t going to report to Astrid in her underwear.

“Oh, of course,” Astrid said, trying to sound considerate. Siari knew it was just an act. “Go ahead. I was just about to take a bath myself.”

In an uncomfortable silence, Siari got dressed, putting on the clothes Gabriella had laid out for her, and pulled the soft leather boots on while Astrid scooped buckets from the spring to the kettle. When she was dressed, Siari wrote a short report about the job. It’d be pointless to accuse Astrid now, so she just wrote,

_was alright_

_had accident_

_strange guy tried to kill me_

_no idea who or why_

_got away though_

_went fine otherwise_

Best not give too many details just now. Astrid didn’t have to know she was a suspect. When Siari was done, Astrid emptied the last bucket in the kettle and shoved the poker into the fire a few times, reviving it.

Then she read the paper with a frown while Siari brushed her hair. “Hmmm. Any idea who this person was?”

She shook her head at Astrid. The less she knew Siari knew, or suspected, the better.

“Strange.” Was that relief Siari registered on her face? It was too subtle, and the bathroom too dark, to tell. “I’ll definitely look into this. Don’t want my family members being harassed by strange people.”

_Sure you don’t, and sure you will._

“In the meantime, your next job’s lined up. The first phase of Amaund Motierre’s plan.”

She’d almost forgotten about this whole emperor-assassination malarkey between all the intrigue here at Sanctuary. She was actually relieved to do a regular job again. She motioned for Astrid to go on.

The woman cast a brief eye at the kettle, the water slowly heating, then explained, “To kill the Emperor, we must first be able to get to him. There’s a wedding occurring very soon, and you’re going to make sure it leads right a funeral.” Astrid unbuckled her leather jerkin. “The bride’s funeral, to be exact.”

Sure, a mark wasn’t any less eligible because it was getting married.

“It seems the wedding will be some kind of symbol, a union between Stormcloaks and Imperials or some such political tripe. Your job will be to prevent that wedding, and send a clear message to the Emperor that the people of Skyrim will not abide a peace treaty. This should send him to Skyrim to intercede personally.”

The why didn’t matter. If the Night Mother approved, she would execute the contract, no matter the reasons. Simple.

“There’s a bonus from Motierre in it if you fulfil a special,” Astrid chuckled, “and rather entertaining condition. The bride must die when all eyes on her, meaning _during_ her speech.” She added, returning to seriousness, “This does mean you’ll be at a far bigger risk during that moment, however, so think carefully on whether you want to fulfil this condition or not. I’d rather have less spectacle and get you back here in one piece than satisfy Motierre but see my beloved daughter cut down or swinging from the gallows.”

It sounded sincere enough, but was it? It was so hard to tell with this woman. Usually strong emotions made a person much more readable, but here, they were so conflicting in Astrid that they just made her completely opaque. There was all kinds of feelings and emotions there, and they made everything so contradictory. Even the Night Mother had trouble reading her, so Siari supposed that meant she shouldn’t even bother trying.

Astrid shrugged off her jerkin and plucked at her shirt, stuck against her sweaty skin. “That’s basically it. The wedding takes place the day after tomorrow, in Solitude. There’ll be some big-heads there, including Jarl Elisif the Fair. I don’t know how Fair she actually is, but if she’s an ugly troll with pig-ears, I want to know, alright?”

Damn it Astrid. It was these kinds of things that made her such a tricky person to gauge. She should be annoyed with Siari to the point of hostility, and yet here she was, light-hearted and making jokes. Perhaps it was some kind of relief, but why would she be relieved if she’d been the one betraying him to the Jorrvaskr-head case in the first place? And why would she be relieved if she didn’t know about it beforehand? Damn it.

“I know the day after tomorrow is soon, but I’ve sent a few people ahead to prepare. Gabriella probably already told you about it, and go see Babette before you leave too. Veezara’s got a few pointers as well. We’re all focused on these contracts now. But get some rest first.”

Astrid’s smile looked genuine enough. Argh, Siari didn’t know whether to hug the woman or stab her. Astrid unbuckled her belt and said, sounding as friendly as she had been before the whole Listener thing started, “Go on, grab a bite to eat, then go close your eyes. I won’t see you when you leave tomorrow, I’ve got some things to take care of, but we’ll talk when you’re back, alright?”

Siari only gave her a curt nod and left the bathroom. Damn Astrid. She’d gotten lucky with Gabriella bumping into her. And now, Siari still couldn’t be sure it was her. She suspected strongly, yes, but it wasn’t certainty. Even the Night Mother still had her doubts.

And getting rid of a fellow family member without certainty would be a bad move. With that thought, it dawned on Siari that this just might be the eventual conclusion to this entire rivalry. There might come a day when she’d have to murder Astrid. Her surrogate mother, who’d inducted her into the family and surrounded her with love, until the whole Listener business had begun.

But if these last events were Astrid’s doing, it meant her beloved mother already had plans in place to get Siari out of the way, and had already started enacting those. She’d have to be extremely wary, and prepared to set aside her reservations and get Astrid before the woman got her, despite her realization that the consequences might be disastrous. Surrogate mother or not, if it came to ‘kill or be killed’, Siari knew event he slightest hesitation would be too much.

She couldn’t let on that she suspected Astrid though. Confronting her would serve no more purpose now, and would make things worse either way.

And what to think of her friendliness just now? It could have been acted, but Siari was definitely convinced there had been some genuine affection there. It couldn’t be relief, she’d determined that already, and to assume it was a desire to put things behind them would be wishful thinking indeed. Jealousy didn’t just disappear overnight.

As she made her first step down the stairs back to the main cave, warmth flushed through her body when she realized the paper stand was still there in the bathroom, along with the last page, with on it, the big fat letters saying,

_NO_

_SOMEONE TOLD_

Ah, damn it, _damn it_! It was too late now! Astrid would read, and she’d know that… argh, this just went more sour every minute! Maybe if she could –

“It’s no fair, Siari.”

A young girl’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, and she quickly got her composure back.

“I love weddings,” Babette complained, walking up to Siari. “Astrid should have given this contract to me. Instead, she’s got me visiting cities,” her eyes rolled, “assessing security, how boring. And meanwhile, you get to marvel at wedding dresses, dancers, music and excellent food.”

Even though her thoughts were still with the damn paper on the damn bookstand, Siari gave Babette a grin that said, _hey, not my fault I get to do the fun stuff_.

“Pft. I’m starting to suspect you of being Astrid’s pet,” Babette joked, then came closer. “Listen, I can help, though. Astrid sent me to scout out the place, and I’m guessing the wedding will be in the Temple of the Divines, in Solitude. If so, the bride will probably address the crowd from the balcony.” She tittered. “They always do when they get married in the Temple of the Divines. Have been doing that for years and years and years.”

Years and years and years? Babette was hardly older than twelve. Siari began to seriously wonder if the child wasn’t completely wrong in the head.

“So above that balcony, right? There’s a gargoyle statue. It’s, like, _really_ old, and there have been numerous priests who’ve already written letters of complaint, saying how dangerous it is and how it has to be fixed to make sure it doesn’t fall. As in, onto the balcony and on top of people.” With a grin, she added, “But you know, letters of complaint…” She made a gesture of crumpling up a paper and throwing it over her shoulder.

With a bounce, she walked to her room and called after Siari, “Just saying.”

Hm, good to know. It would be better to focus on the job for now, anyway. Speculating and racking her brains over the Astrid-thing would just prove fruitless and tiresome. She went to the kitchen for a light meal before bed, and walked in on Veezara and Festus Krex sampling the soup together and giving their opinions to each other. Predictably the old man found it under-seasoned, and Veezara complained that the vegetables didn’t have enough aroma.

“Ah, my lovely,” Festus greeted her with a broad smile. “How does the evening find you?”

“You smell nice,” Veezara remarked before she could answer. Right, the Argonian could pick up smells a mile away. He closed his reptilian eyes. “Freshly bathed. Gabriella’s fragrances truly are tiny miracles.”

She just smiled at them and raised her hand in greeting. It was nice to see them again, too. They’d also heard about her job, and while Veezara ladled a bowl full of soup, Festus took a hump of bread from the pantry, and after a furtive look around, also took out two sweetrolls, one for Siari and one for himself. He sat down beside her, treasuring the pastry, and said quietly to Siari, “I won’t tell Astrid if you won’t.”

Cheered up, Siari took one of the sweetrolls and set it beside her plate, so she could eat it when she was done with her meal of soup-soaked bread.

During dinner, Veezara explained that he’d already done some preliminary work on her job as well. He’d mostly studied the escape route, telling her there was a stairwell under the bridges of one of the towers, near the market. He gave her a word of caution in the end, telling her that if a contract sounded simple, it meant that it almost certainly wouldn’t be so. Getting in would be one thing, but getting out would be far more dangerous. To facilitate the getting in, he told Siari he’d stolen a white, rather festive young lady’s dress and suggested she wear it.

Nazir came to join them halfway, cautioning her that Vittoria Vici, the bride, was the Emperor’s cousin, and slaughtering her at her wedding wasn’t his idea of prudence. The guards would cut an assassin down where she stood, given half a chance, and even the wedding guests might join in, out for blood. He also provided some background. Apparently the significance of murdering the Emperor’s cousin as she was about to marry a prominent Nord and known militant of the Stormcloak faction would be seen as an act of aggression by either or both of the warring groups, an attempt to destroy any possibility of a diplomatic solution. This would cause the Emperor himself to come to Skyrim, after which the rest of the plan could be set in motion.

Festus Krex’ advice was mostly centred around burning things: setting the bride on fire, burning the curtains as a distraction, and even setting the whole temple ablaze. Siari chuckled at every one of his suggestions.

Nazir, finally, warned her that while they all had a part to play in this assassination, Siari would be the one taking the biggest risk by executing it. As if she didn’t know that already. Veezara reminded her that she needed to fear neither guards nor guests as long as she remained unseen. Festus, eventually, offered to come along and sling a few fireballs in case things got hairy.

The meal was ended on a lighter note, with Festus telling a story about a cheating couple accidentally setting each other and the whole house on fire, and her stomach filled and her spirits lightened, Siari went to her bedroom where she found Gabriella, ready to turn in as well.

The evenings when they were both free were always nice, Gabriella talking about this and that while Siari wordlessly listened, both to the words Gabriella spoke, and to the way sleep slowly took over Gabriella’s speech, until it trailed off and finally stopped, replaced by gentle breathing. It made Siari feel calm and at peace.

This time Gabriella talked to her about the Temple of the Divines and about the balcony Babette had mentioned. Apparently she’d placed a little gift there for Siari, promising it’d be the easiest, most spectacular and most straightforward way to let the wedding turn tragic, but that it would give her away as the assassin unless she was _very_ careful.

By the time she was done explaining, sleep had brought her a gentle and peaceful silence, and Siari closed her eyes as well.

* * *

Shadowmere had been waiting for her as she exited Sanctuary at the break of dawn, her belly full with bread and cold soup, and her mount had carried her almost all the way to Solitude in a single day, and after a night of sleeping in the rough, she arrived in the city as the sun showed its first rays over the horizon, changing clothes in a small grove before patting Shadowmere on the side of the neck and silently saying she’d be back. She stowed her backpack and clothes in a small pit and covered it with rocks and leaves, then walked to the city walls, dressed in a fine white dress for the first time in her life, and feeling pretty, even though the dress had a bit too much cleavage which both showed a bit too much skin, and made her a bit insecure about her small breasts. Still, she felt gorgeous. She untied her ponytail and let her hair fall over her bare shoulders.

The city was brightly decorated, wreaths, flowers and banners hanging everywhere, flying and bobbing in the wind, which was still cold but promised to become a refreshing breeze as the sun spread its warmth over the city. The wedding seemed to be a big affair, because the entire city was in a festive mood. Siari almost felt bad about having to throw the whole thing into ruin.

A soldier passed by her, clearly Imperial army from the looks of his armour, smiled at her and greeted her with a friendly, “Bridesmaid.”

Not quite, friend. Not quite.

She hadn’t been able to hide a knife or dagger anywhere, because, well, it would be a bit noticeable, but between Gabriella’s present and Babette’s advice, she’d probably find a way to make it work. She didn’t know where the Temple of the Divines was, since she didn’t know Solitude at all, but that was soon remedied. She pulled the bright red sleeve of a young nobleman holding a goblet of wine, in conversation with two soldiers, and flashed her most innocent smile.

“Yes, what is it?” the nobleman asked, his eyes dismissive. He clearly wasn’t as charmed by Siari’s appearance as the soldier had been. She wasn’t exactly smitten with him too, the flat shoulder-length hair and the hooked nose making him look like a self-loving rat.

Still, she held up the paper she’d prepared, saying,

_Temple of the Divines?_

“Yes?” the noble asked, looking down his hooked nose at her. “What of it, commoner?”

Ugh, was this guy serious? She let out a grunting sigh and pointed at the various streets, making a questioning face.

“Oh, you accost me for directions. How charmingly insolent of you. Also quaint how you can read and write, but not speak. Usually it’s the other way around. The Temple is up this hill, past the inn, and then in the direction of the castle. Now go uh,” he shooed her away, “milk the cows or something.”

Dung eater.

Still, she wasn’t prepared to let this fop spoil her day, so she walked on. Two children ran in her direction, then past her, but the boy threw a flower at Siari as he passed her on his stubby legs, shouting, “You need flowers in your hair, lady!”

Well, why not. She picked up the fallen yellow mountain flower and let the stalk slide between two locks of her hair.

As she neared the Temple, the streets became busier and the sun became warmer. Commoners and noblemen alike made their way up the hill, to the place where the wedding would be held. It was likely to start early in the day, for maximum drinking time, so Siari would have to hurry. She’d figure out how to get in without an invitation later.

Eventually, she made it to the Temple, a massive construction that looked more like a citadel than an actual place of worship. The walls were thick, and made of blocks of bluestone, and crenelated on top. Another thing it had in common with a castle was the number of guards. There were more than a few of them, though Siari assumed they would have increased the number for the wedding. The Temple was ringed with a battlement twice as high as the actual building, and halfway up was a balcony, its railing lined with flowers and drapes hung against the wall. That would be the place where the bride was to address the guests. Good.

She stopped and thought, while observing the entrance, on how to get in. Sure enough, there was a gap in the ring wall where she stood, and people filed in through there, but those probably had an invitation.

Although…

When she observed the people more clearly, she noticed that not a single one presented any kind of document to the two guards at the entrance. Maybe nobody needed an invitation for this wedding? It was possible, that this wedding was so significant that everyone was invited. Good, she could just shuffle on in. She looked the part, definitely.

After making sure enough people didn’t show an invitation, she took her chances and just walked in with the crowd, past the guards.

“Wait… I know you!” a gruff man’s voice called behind her.

Oh shit, no. She froze in her tracks, all kinds of thoughts going through her, Astrid had snitched, someone had recognized her, she’d acted suspiciously, the guards knew everyone and didn’t recognize her, all kinds of possibilities raced through her head as she felt warmth flushing up her chest. She risked a look back and saw one of the guards point at her. She began walking.

“You. Stop right there.”

Shit, shit, _shit._ She did no such thing, just kept moving, hoping to get a chance to disappear in the crowd, but it was nowhere that thick in the Temple’s courtyard. Damn it, no, no, no!

“I said, _stop_!” Hasty, determined footsteps came toward her.

Siari stopped moving now, screwing her eyes shut and hoping she’d get a chance to talk (or write) her way out of it before they stripped her lovely white dress off her, tore the flower from her hair, and hanged her from the gallows for all to see.

The guardsman shouldered past her, bumping into her so hard she almost lost her footing, and proceeded to grab the collar of a blonde-haired woman with a sharp face, dressed in leather, who’d been walking in front of her. Had she seen that face somewhere before? Probably not.

“Thieves’ Guild scum aren’t welcome here.” The guard dragged the woman back to the exit, giving Siari a quick apology as he stomped by. “Sorry for the bump, dear.” As she watched over her shoulder, the guard shoved the thief out so hard she fell to her hands and knees, and gave her a sharp kick in the backside, sending her with her face cracking onto the cobblestones.

Siari breathed a long, deep sigh of relief. For a minute there, she thought she was going to swing at the end of a rope, or feel her head fall into the basket.

Not this time, Arkay. Not this time.

She looked up at the Temple walls and the balcony. There was indeed a gargoyle above it, so Babette had been right about that at least. Now all she had to do was get up there, find Gabriella’s present, and sit tight until the speech began. It was still early, and most of the pews on the courtyard weren’t occupied yet. Instead people stood talking in groups, drinking wine, laughing and gesticulating busily. Everyone, even the poorest-looking, had done some effort to dress festively, even if it was just a few ribbons tied to their clothes.

Getting up there would be the tricky part. She assumed that was done by the doorways in the side of the walls, since they appeared to lead to stairs, from what she could see, but her view was blocked by a burly guard on every side.

Forcing her way through would be impossible. Too many people, too many guards. Besides, it’s not like she could take either of the guards anyway. She wasn’t a fighting machine after all. She thought back to the lucky throw she’d done in Jorrvaskr, her dagger striking the young woman right in the chest, and realized she never wanted to be in such a dangerous position again. Kicking the life out of her, feeling the ribs crack and the soft cushions of her breast tissue tear beneath her feet had given her a massive rush, but it could have ended differently, and she realized she’d gotten lucky then.

No, no more violence, just clean, safe kills.

But of course, there were always alternatives to fighting. Her eye fell on a pile of flower wreaths lying in a large woven basket. Hmm, this would work.

She shot a brief look around, then took several of the wreaths in her arms. If the other guard had believed she was a bridesmaid, then maybe so would this one. She looked at both sides and chose the more gullible-looking soldier, a man with a potato nose, red from drinking, and a rather simple expression in his eyes.

The best way would be to simply walk up to him, the wreaths in her arms, and smile. With any luck, he’d be clever enough to realize she wanted to go up there to ‘hang the wreaths’, and not clever enough to realize she actually didn’t belong there, and most likely, neither did the wreaths.

She took a breath and enacted her plan, walking up to the man, looking as cheerful and charming as possible, making sure her fringe and the hair falling down her back bounced as she walked.

“Oh hello girl,” the guardsman said, his eyes small and watery. He looked like he was nursing a not insignificant hangover. Probably pre-emptive revenge for being on duty and not allowed to drink today. “Sorry, Jarl Elisif has strictly forbidden us to decorate our uniforms. No flowers, no ribbons, no uh… wreaths around our necks.”

Right. She hadn’t expected this to happen. Still, unfazed, she made a vapid, cheerful face at him (‘oh don’t be _sil-ly_!’) and pointed her eyes at the balcony. The guard’s bloodshot eyes followed her gaze, and then understanding dawned on his crumpled features. “ _Oh_ , of course. Hanging the wreaths, eh?”

She broadened her smile, relieved, and nodded vigorously, making sure she appeared as dumbly upbeat as possible.

“Go ahead, little flower,” the guard said, stepping out of the way, “though you should save some flowers for yourself. I’d stick a few in your hair if I was allowed to.”

No, you charmer. You’re not allowed to. The remark didn’t make her shudder, after all, it was harmless enough, but still, no. She gave him a false look of being flattered, then scooted past him and up the stairs. He hadn’t even noticed she hadn’t said a word. Hangovers would do that to a man, she supposed. And well, maybe also some fluttering eyelashes, a pretty dress and a decent amount of cleavage, such as it was.

BALCONY

NO ACCESS

Fine. It’s not like she needed to be on the balcony anyway. She ignored the sign blocking off the corridor and followed the stairs upward, also ignoring the sign that told her she had no access there either. As if such a sign would discourage anyone with bad intentions. _I’m here to murder people but the sign says I can’t pass, damn, foiled again_.

Up she went, emerging on the ring wall, which was thankfully free of guards. Most of them were deployed in the courtyard, surrounding streets, and inside the temple, and there were doubtless some putting on their parade uniforms now.

If she stayed low, no one could see her from the ground, but she had to make sure the guard who’d let her pass was convinced she was really up there to hang the flowers, so she crouch-walked to the gargoyle, and from between the crenels, looked at the guard until she saw him looking up at her to check if she was doing what she said she was going to do. When she saw him look upwards, she pretended to come up from picking up a wreath, and without looking down at him, acted like she was tying the flower piece’s ribbon to one of the hooks. She stayed visible as long as she dared, until she was convinced the guard was satisfied, then ducked back behind the wall, making sure a few wreaths were hung so he wouldn’t get suspicious at the lack of flowery decorations.

Now she waited, hoping no fussy wedding planner would notice the unplanned wreaths and go into a foot-stomping and arm-flailing tantrum. From between the crenels, she saw more and more people gradually filling the courtyard, until there were close to a thousand. This would be a challenging getaway if she got spotted. Still, there was a tall, leafless tree near the wall that led to the other side. A leap of faith and a well-timed grab and she could just climb down and run.

While she waited, she looked for Gabriella’s present, tucked away, according to the generous giver, behind a loose stone in the third crenel from the left. After first searching for a loose stone in the third crenel on the left side, she realized Gabriella probably meant the left according to the person standing in the courtyard, and crept over to the other side, rolling her eyes at her own ineptitude. This time, she found the loose stone immediately, prying it loose with her fingers and reaching into the hollow. Her fingers touched a long wooden object, and she pulled it out. It was a shortbow, not exactly Siari’s favourite weapon, or one she could use with any impressive degree of skill, but it would do for this short distance. A small note was bound to it. She opened it and read Gabriella’s jagged and hard script,

_Don’t forget the potion_

Ah, there was a potion to go with it. There was another line.

_And the arrows_

A crude drawing of a smiling face was added. Siari smiled to herself. No, Gabriella, she wouldn’t forget the arrows. She recovered those from the hiding place in the stone, and also took out a round glass bottle filled with a semi-transparent yellow liquid. One of Gabriella’s little break-the-rules concoctions, this one probably brewed for giving the user better aim and stability to use a bow. She didn’t know how long the effect lasted, but it wouldn’t be a matter of hours, so she just held it in her hand, waiting for the speech.

After some time, horns sounded, and several soldiers with musical instruments began a slow, stately melody to announce the coming of the to-be-wed couple.

Siari risked a peep between the crenels to take a look at the two people at the centre of the festivities. Victoria Vici was a tanned Imperial woman, dressed in a wedding gown of both the brightest white, and the brightest red Siari had ever seen. She was good-looking for her age. The groom looked like… what she thought she remembered her father looked like. Or maybe she only remembered what she’d been told about him. The groom’s clothing was less festive, a dark brown pair of trousers and a green tunic, bear fur draped over his shoulders. His dark blond hair was tied back in braids, and his beard was bound together with a metal ring.

They proceeded through the courtyard, between the benches, and then split up, each taking the stairs to the balcony on their side. They would be reunited on the balcony, where a small wooden pavilion was built, with two chairs under the wooden arch. Candelabras stood at both sides, candles burning almost invisibly in the bright sunlight.

The music kept playing, and smiles were on all the faces as they applauded the couple (and doubtless the free wine and snacks they would receive later on). Siari wondered how many of these people actually knew either of the two love birds. Her eyes wandered, and they stopped at a woman in noble garb, flanked by two heavily-armed guardsmen. The golden circle she wore around her head made it clear who this was. Astrid would be in for a disappointment. No pig ears on Jarl Elisif the Fair. Quite the contrary, her kind but sad-looking face was perhaps one of the most beautiful Siari had ever seen, the sadness in her eyes actually making her even more breath-taking.

Both parts of the couple were now ascending the stairs, and after a moment, they emerged on the balcony, and with a stately pace, walked towards each other, briefly holding hands, and then sitting down on the high-backed, ornate chairs, waiting for the crowd’s applause and cheering to die down.

Siari guessed now would be the time for the bride to speak. She pulled the stopper from Gabriella’s potion and gulped it down. As soon as she did so, a strange tranquillity came over her, combined with a greater ability to focus and concentrate.

“My dearest family, friends, and all people gathered here today,” she heard a woman’s voice announce. That would be the bride. Peeking over the battlement, she saw it was indeed the case. “Today’s union is more than the mere wedding of two beloved.”

Still kneeling behind the wall, Siari took the bow and nocked an arrow.

“It also signifies a union. A union between Skyrim and Cyrodiil.”

Now was the time. Siari popped up from behind the battlement, drew the string, and with the aid of Gabriella’s elixir, focused directly on the side of the bride’s throat. Sending her to a gasping, gurgling, choking death would certainly send a message that could not be misinterpreted.

“A union between Stormcloak and – ”

“Assassin!”

The bride’s head turned sharply just as Siari released the bowstring, and the arrow flew towards its target, as if time had slowed through a crawl, giving Siari all the time in the world to curse at the bastard, whoever it was, who had reacted so quickly to her sudden, bow-wielding appearance. The arrow flashed slowly through the air before embedding itself in the woman’s torso, just above the collarbone.

Time still progressed at a snail’s pace as Siari saw the woman being knocked back by the impact, her legs giving out, sending her to the ground. She knew there was no certainty that this wound was lethal, and it had to be. She tried to pick another arrow off the ground, but before she could, a projectile whizzed past her and clattered to pieces on the wall behind her.

She fell flat and crawled on elbows and knees as more arrows flew overhead. They’d be coming up the stairs any minute now. Shit, shit, shit. She had to finish it.

Her eye fell on the gargoyle statue just ahead. Of course!

She crawled as fast as she could, her elbows and knees first tearing the fabric of her dress and then their own skin as they bumped and scraped over the rough stone. When she reached the gargoyle, she risked a quick peek and saw soldiers racing into the doorways towards the staircases. On the balcony lay the bleeding bride in her wailing groom’s arms. For a brief moment, she thought about just jumping for the tree and forgetting about it, but she knew that wasn’t an option.

If she failed this contract, Astrid would have every excuse she needed.

She popped back up, and before the eyes and then the arrows found her, set her back against the wall and her feet against the gargoyle, pushing as hard as she could. The stone crunched and cracked, but the gargoyle didn’t fall. One soldier released his bowstring, and several more arrows found her, but she ducked down just in time to avoid them.

She popped up again, set her teeth and pushed, her muscles screaming in pain. This time the stone pedestal of the gargoyle broke free, and her feet kicked the air as the enormous weight went plummeting down. No arrows came, and as she threw herself to the ground again, she saw billowing smoke down below, obscuring the bowmen from her sight, and her from theirs.

One guard emerged from the doorway on her level, sword ready, and others followed. It didn’t matter where the smoke had come from, she had to get out _now_. Two soldiers on the wall had readied their arrows, and she only barely avoided them by throwing herself to the side, then leapt to her feet and pushed herself off from the battlement.

She didn’t fly far without her enchanted boots.

Her hand clawed for the branch, but it was out of reach. She let out a terrified scream as her hand snatched only air and she went down. The next moment, she felt painful impacts all over her body as she spun and tumbled, going down as if she was being clubbed by a hundred men.

The last impact was softer, and with pain blasting through her body from a thousand places at once, she realized she’d landed on the ground and was still alive. Though every bone in her body hurt from smacking into the branches on the way down, those branches had also saved her life by slowing her fall to a survivable speed. It didn’t matter, those guards would shoot her before she could even get to her feet. She briefly closed her eyes and waited for the arrows to tear through her organs and her skull, but nothing came, only confused shouting made its way down to her.

She dared to open her eyes and saw more smoke on the battlements, occasionally broken by a flailing hand that tried to disperse it.

Biting the pain, she got to her feet and realized nothing was irreparably damaged except her dress. The next moment, a dark shape came down next to her, landing in the soft grass. When she’d shaken off her surprise, she recognized Veezara in his Shadowscale leathers.

“I love a good daring escape,” he said cheerfully, in his rough Argonian voice. “So I knew I had to come and watch. Nice acrobatics, by the way. Very… daring.”

She could only make a sad face at the dress she wore, holding the hems of the skirt between her fingers. The garment was shredded, torn and dirty.

“I’ll steal you a new one, don’t worry.”

The soldiers above, however, had overcome their confusion and now started releasing arrows from within the cloud of smoke. Most missed their mark wildly, but a few embedded themselves in the grassy ground at the two assassins’ feet.

“Come,” Veezara said, still not sounding at all worried. “Vittoria Vici and her groom are squashed tomatoes. Festus will keep them busy and blinded for a while with his smoke pouches. Can you walk? Let’s take that escape route I told you about.”

 

 


	46. Roë: Seeking Disclosure

  **ROË**

**Seeking Disclosure**

**The Garden**

“For now,” Serana said to Roë, “we simply do what we’ve been doing so far. We follow my father’s orders.”

They’d emerged from the Soul Cairn and the laboratory, into the garden bathed in twilight. Instead of it being dawn, like they assumed, however, it was the middle of the night again. There was no way they’d spent almost twenty-four hours in the Cairn, so maybe time just went differently between the two worlds. So much the better, now they wouldn’t have to wait out the day in the creepy laboratory.

“We do what you think is best, Serana,” Roë said, being completely sincere.

“I’m not sure, to be honest, but yes, I think we’re better off playing along for now. As for the Scroll, I’ll simply say I killed my mother over it. My father will be so pleased to hear it that he won’t question it.”

“You sure about that?”

She let out a short laugh. “Even after a thousand years, I still know how to throw sand in my father’s eyes.”

With a nod, Roë merely said, “If you’re sure.” After all, Serana knew best, and she was just a fledgling, as people never stopped reminding her. She also had no taste for politics, or scheming, or any of those things. It was why she never advanced beyond squad chief in the guard, so many lifetimes ago.

“Yeah,” Serana nodded. “As sure as I can be. Besides, we can’t defy my father like this. We’re obviously two swingin’ ladies, but while I was sleeping and you were busy uh… not yet being born, my father was growing more powerful by the year. So we can’t just say, ‘sorry dad, we’re done playing errand girls, we’re going to live by the seaside, bye’.”

“Wish we could though.” Roë felt the nerves coming on as she tested the waters, saying, “I bet we could have a pleasant existence, away from all the conniving, just the two of us.”

With a smile, Serana said, “I love your simple honesty, Roë, I really do.”

Not the answer she’d expected, but not the one she’d dreaded either. The urge to kiss Serana welled up inside her and she had all the trouble in the world holding it back.

“Everything alright?”

Giving a nervous smile, Roë just said, “Yes, I’m fine, was miles away.”

“Looked like a pleasant few miles.”

“It… was, in a way.”

Serana only grinned mysteriously. “Well, let’s go see my father. No point disobeying him until we can properly defend ourselves.”

“Going to be hard to read the Scrolls with that Moth Priest blind as a bat,” Roë said.

Serana shrugged. “Oh, you can be sure that my father already knew this would happen, and that he’s already thought of alternatives.”

“Didn’t the priest say he knew of another way?”

“Mmmm-hm. And you don’t have to think for a moment that my father will send anyone else than us to make that other way happen. The second we give him the Scroll, he’ll have another little task for us.”

“Well, like you said, we do as he says for the time being, right?”

“Mm.” Serana stopped walking. “You know, Roë, maybe it’s best if I go report to my father alone.”

“You’re… not going to tell him I’m dead, are you?”

Serana slapped her shoulder playfully. “Tch, no. But if there’s only one person telling the story, there’s far less to keep straight.”

“Oh… sure, if you think it’s best.”

“Aw, don’t give me that look, I’m not trying to get rid of you.” Roë wasn’t even aware she was giving Serana any kind of look, let alone any kind of ‘that look’. “I’m serious, it’s just better this way. Ooh, how ‘bout…” Serana had a mischievous grin, “I say you fought the dragon alone while I killed my mother. That way you won’t have to answer any questions.”

Nice of Serana to be so falsely generous, but no. “There’s no need for that. We did that together. Just… say you went to speak to her alone and that I waited outside.”

“Fine,” Serana said with a shrug. “It’s your glory that’s lost.”

Because this ‘life’ sure was glorious.

“What do I do in the meantime?”

Shrugging again, Serana said, “Go for a drink. Get to know some people. Play some board games with Garen. Take dancing lessons from Hestla. Play fetch with Fura.“ Realizing what she’d said, she blinked and rephrased, “I mean, you and Fura play fetch with the hounds.”

She almost said, _but I don’t know anyone here_ , but realized she couldn’t cling to Serana forever, and if she was going to be nobility, she had to act the part. And that meant not being afraid to meet new people. Well. New creatures. “Right, I’ll just… roam around the castle some.”

“Be sure to visit the dungeons,” Serana said in a bubbly voice, walking towards her father’s audience chamber. “But don’t get greedy.”

She was rather hungry, she had to admit, even though she dreaded the thought of feeding. She’d been able to restrain herself with the half-Orsimer girl, but it had been close. Still, she knew she’d have to be careful, because if it happened too often, if she lost herself in the feeding too many times…

Namasur welcomed her with a curious mixture of subservience and simmering resentment. He probably hadn’t dared to show the latter with Serana present, but Roë alone seemed to be fair game. Again, she was reminded of how little she amounted to compared to Serana, nobility or not.

“Lady Roë,” he said, on a tone that Roë could interpret no different than forced politeness. “You’re back. The prisoners are at your disposal.”

The half-Orsimer girl sat against the bars, her eyes closed and her head lying back against the metal. The young Nord boy sat by her, holding her hand.

Of course. Roë had almost killed her, and no matter how feisty she was, losing near-lethal levels of blood would make any living human weak for quite a while. But how long had that while been, exactly?

“Namasur. You said, ‘you’re back’.”

“I did, Lady Roë.”

She resented having to ask this dubious type any questions beyond the strictly necessary, but she still asked, “How… long was I gone?”

Surprised, Namasur stammered, “Why… if memory serves, three, no… four nights?”

Damn, time really did pass differently in this world.

“There were rumours starting that Lady Serana and yourself had come upon… unfortunate circumstances,” Namasur told her, his voice betraying that part of him had hoped for those rumours to be true, at least as far as Roë was concerned, but she didn’t pursue it. “But those were apparently merely that, rumours.”

Yes, Namasur, that uppity bitch who told you to treat the prisoners right and who saddled you with twice the work is still here to pester you.

And she wasn’t about to let him watch her in the throes of feeding ecstasy. It felt too… intimate. The feeding bout with the half-orc had been the same as with poor Acrus. The only thing close to physical pleasure she could still feel, and it was addictive and overwhelming. She wasn’t about to let Namasur watch her, eyes closed, moaning with her hands going up and down a human’s body, and the human’s hands on hers. Once had been enough. For some reason she didn’t mind with Serana.

No, not ‘for some reason’. She knew the reason damn well.

She looked over the prisoners, trying to decide. It was a hard choice to make, because she might be damning one of them to more than a few days or weeks of recovery.

“Fine. I’ll go next,” one of the prisoners, a young Breton man, small and timid, spoke up. He looked miserable, even more than the others, his stringy hair hanging over his face. “I don’t care. Go on, but if you’re going to kill me, make sure you do it proper.”

“This one,” she said to Namasur. “I’ll take him to my room.”

“Lady Roë,” Namasur stammered, wringing his hands in nervousness. “This… this is most irregular.”

“I don’t care,” she said flatly. “You’re going to allow it.”

“I… of course, Lady Roë. But Lord Harkon – ”

“Lord Harkon won’t mind,” Roë said, being curt with him, making sure he knew she wasn’t just Serana’s side-kick, and that she had teeth of her own. “So neither should you. Unless you presume to know Lord Harkon’s mind better than I do?” There, that was a hitter.

“Certainly… certainly not, my Lady,” he muttered, with a nervous, apologetic grin. Roë wanted to swipe it clean off his face with her nails. She knew damn well he considered her an upstart fledgling, like the nephew of Elisif the Fair who made a sudden and prolific career in the Guard even though he had no skills, experience, or talent. She’d always hated the little shit, but she realized that maybe, to some, she was no different from him.

No matter, they would obey her, and they would like it. All the Vampires in this castle would shut up and listen if she spoke, from now on, even Orthjolf and Vingalmo, the two conniving right hand men of her Lord. Apart from Harkon and Serana, they were all beneath her, and it was high time they realized and respected it. Starting with this vile slave keeper.

“Good. I don’t care how things have been here for hundreds of years. They’ve changed now that I’m here, so I suggest you get used to it before I throw you on the pyre and replace you with someone less repulsive.” She was overstepping her bounds here, but it didn’t matter. They had to know their place. “Now bring me my meal instead of mewling.”

The false submissiveness had gone now, and what smouldered in Namasur’s eyes was contained but pure disgruntlement. Let him. As long as he knew his place. And he did, turning the key in the lock and opening the cell door, his long pole in the other hand. Energy crackled at its end. Probably a minor enchantment cast on it, not too impressive, but still powerful enough to seriously hurt a living human.

“Out, prisoner.”

At least he didn’t call them cattle. Well, not with Roë present, at least.

The Breton stepped forward and Namasur grabbed him roughly by the collar, shoving him just hard enough so he fell at Roë’s feet.

“That’s enough of that,” Roë commanded. She could all but see his face tell her she was despicable for being so attached to these humans. He could shove his crackling rod right up his withered asshole for all Roë cared.

She helped the Breton to his feet, roughly enough to show who was in charge, and said, “Come on, you. I asked for room service.” She hauled the prisoner up the stairs, and to her quarters. A few Vampires saw her, but apart from a mildly surprised look here and there, no one seemed to have much interest in the meal Roë was dragging through the castle.

She kicked her own door open, shoved the prisoner inside, and closed it behind her again.

From where he sat on the wooden floorboards, the young man looked at her with hopeful eyes. “You’re the… you’re the one who stood up for us a while ago,” he said quietly, as if the walls had ears. Maybe they did. “Do you need me for… the next step?”

Uh, _what_? “What are you talking about?” Roë asked, impatient.

“I… well,” the prisoner stammered, “This… the whole ‘up to my room’-thing was a… a trick? A ruse, right?”

What in Oblivion was this dunghead babbling about. “A ruse? For what?”

“To… to enact a… a plan… to, to free us?” the man asked, growing more and more insecure as he talked.

Oh, was that what he thought? That was ridiculous. As if she was going to set them free. Not only would the other Vampires tear her limb from limb and feed her shreds to the hounds, but also… Roë was a Vampire, and a Vampire had to sustain itself. No, no. This prisoner wasn’t here to be involved in a secret plan.

“Boy,” Roë said simply, “I’m afraid you’re here for a much simpler reason than that.”

“Y… you…” the Breton’s eyes looked up at her, pleading. “You just want to…”

“Feed. Yes. Then you go back down.” Did these people really think she was going to risk herself for them? And had they forgotten what she’d done already? “Don’t look at me like that. Because of me, you get aired regularly, you have books, you’re treated like people instead of like animals, and you’re out of this walking-corpse state. Isn’t that enough? Huh?” She felt herself getting angry. “And now you try to guilt me into breaking you all out? Doesn’t that seem a bit entitled to you?”

“I… I thought…”

“ _Don’t_ think! Just be happy for what I’ve done for you.”

“Happy?” the prisoner spat defiantly, from his place on the floor. “Your little gestures don’t mean anything. They’re just things you do to quiet your own guilt. Because in the end, all you want to do is feed on us, just like the others.”

How dared he? After all she’d done, all the risks she’d taken. This worm still wanted more, and had the _nerve_ to spit on everything she’d arranged for him and his worthless consorts? “I’ve heard enough,” she growled, her hand lashing out, hooking around the prisoner’s rags and pulling him to her. The next moment, her fangs impaled his throat and warm, rich blood spurted out, straight into her throat. A hard, sharp rush went down from her chest, right down through her guts and, it felt, all the way down to her perineum. The blood gulped down her esophagus and into the warm, greedy cavern of her stomach. Her arms wrapped around the prisoner, one hand clinging to his ribcage, the other latching on to his lower back.

The prisoner let out a single, impotent moan, instantly going limp in her arms, and she drank, rage and hunger blotting out everything else in her mind. Blood ran down her chin and throat, but she didn’t care, the blood coming so fast she couldn’t swallow it all down.

Then the prisoner’s body made a single jerk, and the blood stopped.

She let the body drop to the floorboards, still so full of anger she hadn’t realized what she’d done yet. But when she saw him lying completely drained, all the emotions were driven from her, replaced by an oily black mixture of guilt, shame, and despair.

She’d killed again.

The prisoner lay on the ground, his limbs in awkward positions, his skin drained to white and stretched taut over his bones.

It had happened again. What would she say to Serana? Should she even say anything? Even as she stood over the prisoner’s body, panic rising up inside of her, she unconsciously scooped some of the blood on her throat up with her finger and put it in her mouth. She had to keep this quiet, she had to make sure –

There was an intense, brief pain in the side of her throat, and the next moment, her muscles stopped working. Her knees buckled and a pair of arms held her up.

Confused, her mind worked furiously, trying to make sense of why her body suddenly no longer responded. There was a strange complacency overtaking her, a desire to close her eyes and just let whatever was happening, happen, even as mounting and screaming terror vied for control. And then she realized what was going on.

She was being fed on, oh Y’ffre, she was being _fed on_!

She felt herself being gently lowered into her bed while it was as if her insides were liquefying and being sucked out through the side of her throat. The moan her attacker let out sounded distinctly male, but that was all she could understand. She didn’t even know who was doing this, or why. She’d die here, not even knowing who was condemning her to this slow, horrible, yet comforting and pleasant death.

Her eyes looked at the ceiling, her body paralyzed, as she lay on her bed with her mysterious assailant continuing to feed, slowly, as if he wanted to savour every drop.

“What’s this then?” she heard a voice, coming from slightly farther away, past her assailant, sounding full of pleasant surprise and satisfaction. “This little vista I have coincidentally stumbled upon? The two individuals in this castle I hate most, both helpless yet perfectly able to hear me.”

Roë was able to turn her eyes just a bit, enough to see the scraggy brown hair, parted in the middle. Even in her numbness, she knew she knew who this belonged to.

“Now, the choice, both possibilities equally tempting. Win favour with Lord Harkon by saving this worthless little she-elf, and getting rid of my good friend Vingalmo at the same time, or join my dead, dear rival in partaking from noble blood and gaining power so great I might challenge Lord Harkon himself.”

Oh Y’ffre no, she was so helpless.

“One choice gets rid of Vingalmo, one of this puny little upstart. Hmm, choices, choices.”

Silence fell, and all Roë could hear was the quiet sound of her blood being drained.

“I suppose,” the voice said at length, “I would be better off sticking with a rival I know.”

Faintly, she felt fingers coming to rest on her thigh, and with a ripping sound, a tear was made in her pants, above the knee. “We will sort out our little quarrel later, dear Vingalmo. For now, we will both take the blood from her unworthy flesh.”

The next moment, a sharp, brief pain shot through her thigh, immediately disappearing in a new wave of numbness as both Vampires violated her, draining her dry as she lay with arms and legs wide, looking up at the ceiling with eyes that slowly darkened.

Her end came, and she embraced it with willing refusal. The feeding told her it was alright, that she could just go to sleep and be rid of this existence, and though her conscious mind knew she was being violated in the worst way a Vampire could be, a calm tranquillity came over her and she felt joy in it, her body unwilling to resist this terrible bliss. But at the same time, the Vampire in her kicked and screamed and snarled against the numbness, determined not to go quietly even as her body was nothing but quiet. All she could do was move her jaw, as if she was gasping for air.

This was how she would finally die then, on a bed, sprawled, while two traitors enjoyed her body together, their rivalry put aside for the ecstasy they were feeling now. Teeth were sunk in her throat and her thigh, taking her blood slowly, to make it last as long as possible. She would die as nothing more than fulfilment for their desires.

Was this how it would turn out? Was this all she would amount to? It would seem so, and even though she knew it wasn’t, her body told her it was alright.

The last of her strength fled her, and she came to the realization she’d never be able to tell Serana how she felt. It was the only regret she was still able to muster. Serana would never know, her feelings would die with her.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And yet, this is how it would be.

A shock went through her leg, only faintly registering in Roë’s darkening mind. Then another, a blast coming from her throat as the teeth dug in them were torn free, lacerating her skin.

The draining stopped. She hovered on the brink of unconsciousness, but she no longer slid away.

“You two conniving, traitorous bastards,” a voice said at the edge of her reality. It was a young voice, female, sounding slightly nasal, with a peculiar accent. It was a voice she knew, but not very well. “Am I glad to finally have an excuse to stake the both of you.”

Silence fell again, then the voice spoke, with considerable effort. “I should… go get help. But…”

Roë was too half-dead to still feel panic or fear.

“… You’re lying there, so vulnerable, so helpless. Your blood so rich and powerful.”

Maybe all this one would do was finish her off.

“I should… I should…”

There was the sound of lips being licked, deafening in the silence.

Suddenly there was a grunt of effort, and the voice cried out, “Lord Harkon! Lord Harkon!”

Footsteps hastened out of the room, and seconds later, several more came running in. There were voices, but she couldn’t register what they said. Something cold and smooth was set against her lips, and lukewarm but unlife-giving blood dribbled into her mouth.

As strength returned to her body, so did clarity return to her mind, and vision to her eyes. Serana was standing over her, her fiery eyes full of concern. Roë’s arm weighed a tonne, but she was able to bring it up enough for her fingers to briefly touch Serana’s cheek.

“That was close,” Serana breathed. “A few seconds later and you would have been my late bodyguard.”

She tried to speak, but could only move her mouth. More blood was poured in, and energy returned to her, her vision now clear and her mind lucid. She didn’t know exactly what had happened yet, but she was still in existence! Her feelings would not die with her, not this time.

“D… did you… s…”

“Save you?” Serana laughed. “No, I was in audience with my dear father. He’ll be here soon.”

Other Vampires stood around her, looking concerned. Roë doubted that more than a few of them actually were.

“Wh… what happened?”

Serana turned away from Roë, and to someone else. “I think you’re the best person to tell us, aren’t you?”

A young female Vampire with a thin, pretty face cleared her throat. “I was doing my rounds, Lady Serana, and I saw this door was open.”

This had been the voice she’d heard. The nasal sound, the accent, this was Fura, in charge of security.

“I came upon our Lord’s dear, loyal right hand-men trying to consume the Lady Roë. So I… intervened.”

“And by ‘intervened’,” a male voice sounded. Roë turned her head and saw Lord Harkon entering her chamber, “… you mean murdered them? Two of your fellows?”

The young Vampire’s mouth fell open. “B… but my Lord, it was the only – ”

“Orthjolf and Vingalmo were connivers, but they were also high-placed members of my court,” Harkon threatened the girl. “And you staked them in the back!”

Serana’s hand closed around Roë’s helping her sit up.

“I…” Fura feebly protested, “I saved your…”

“Silence!” Harkon snapped, the other immediately obeying.

After letting the moment sink in, Harkon proclaimed, “Fura Bloodmouth, for the murders of Ortholf and Vingalmo, you are to be relieved of your appointment as guardian-at-arms, and imprisoned with minimal feeding until your Lord has determined a final sentence.”

“Father,” Serana tried carefully to persuade Harkon, “Fura saved Roë. Perhaps her methods were a little… overzealous, but surely you agree that trying to consume one of our blood is a heinous crime?”

“So is staking two prominent members of this court,” Harkon replied, sounding calm, but the wrath under his voice was clear. “Ortholf and Vingalmo have been punished for their transgression, but that does not mean this…” he made a shooing gesture at Fura, “… lowly _vassal_ was the one who had licence to carry it out on her own accord.”

“But…” Fura blurted out, “… what should I have done? They were about to – ”

“I said _silence_!” Harkon bellowed, causing the erstwhile guardian-at-arms to recoil in fear. Roë pitied the poor thing, and felt guilty at the same time. “One more word out of you, Fura Bloodmouth, and I’ll feed your bowels to your own dogs _while you watch_!”

Thankfully, the girl took the hint and shut up.

“Modhna, take her away and lock her up until I’ve decided what to do with her.”

Harkon’s lap dog did as she was told, taking Fura by the upper arm and leading her away. Before she left the room, though, Roë mustered up the courage to say, “Thank you, Fura.”

She got a look in return that could mean either understanding absolution or pure accusatory despise.

“And you too,” Harkon barked. “Not one word. Serana, get this waste of blood back on her feet, then come to my audience chamber. Send _her_ in and wait by the door until I summon you.”

“Father – ”

“Do as I say!” Then he turned to the Vampires who’d come to gawk. “The rest of you, out! Before I make you wish you were standing in the sun!”

Everyone, including Lord Harkon, cleared off, leaving Serana and Roë alone, sitting on the bed. Roë needed Serana to keep her stable somewhat, since her strength was still pathetic.

Serana turned to her and looked her in the eyes. “Are you alright, Roë?”

Slowly, Roë managed to nod. “Yes I’m… it was close, but… poor Fura.”

“Nevermind her,” Serana said, slightly bothered. “What’s important right now is that you’re still with us. Orthjolf and Vingalmo had almost… well…”

“Is it like… in story books?”

Serana raised an eyebrow, not understanding.

“When you drink a Vampire’s blood, you gain its power?”

“Oh, that. Yes, in a way, but… if it’s not willing, you have to drain the other Vampire completely. We call it consumption, and it’s a terrible transgression, upsetting one’s Lord’s hierarchy for one’s own advancement.”

“It was… close,” Roë breathed. It had been, she thought she was dead when Fura had freed her.

“Well,” Serana said, “thank whatever Aedra or Daedra you believe in that you’re alive. Losing you now would have been… painful.”

Maybe it was her brush with death, maybe it was her own feelings reaching a head, or maybe it was what Serana had just said, but without warning, her love for her friend came flooding back, almost knocking her over, taking possession of her, making her belly cramp with anxious anticipation, and remembering how she’d felt when she was on the verge of death, her love made the decision for her. What people left unsaid remained that way, and she would not make the mistake twice, of waiting until she was no longer able to tell how she felt.

Leaning forward, she tilted her head and planted her lips on Serana’s, feeling her cold mouth on hers, her arms wrapping around Serana’s waist. She felt surprised resistance, but that was merely due to the abruptness. It had to be.

For a brief moment, Roë felt nothing but joy as their lips touched, but then her tongue hit the hard wall of Serana’s teeth.

“Roë, wh… what… what in Oblivion… are you _insane_?” she heard Serana sputter, pulling away from her, away from her kiss and out of her weakened embrace. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Roë felt everything inside her sink down into an oily, painful, cramped, black mass. All the love, all the anticipation, all the hope, all the tension, it all crashed down, drowning in the cold, viscous oil of her breaking heart.

Not this. Anything but this.

“I… I thought…” she could only say.

“Roë,” Serana said, shifting away from Roë on the bed. “You thought wrong, whatever it was.” Sadness came over her beautiful face. “Oh Roë, Roë… please don’t tell me you were…”

There was nothing she could do but admit it. “… In love, yes.”

Oh no, not this. Not after all she’d been through, not after all she’d hoped for.

Serana sighed, slumping forward. “Oh, Roë… what were you even trying to do?”

How could she ask such a thing? What did she think she’d been hoping for? “I was hoping I’d be able to feel the same love I want to give. I was hoping to find joy with you rather than this pain!”

“Joy?” Serana asked incredulously. “We’re Vampires. Whatever joys love holds are barred for us forever. We’re _dead_ , Roë, we can’t jump in bed together and touch each other in funny places.”

“We don’t have to either,” Roë snapped, the heartbreak amplified by the lack of understanding Serana was giving her now. “We could just… be together. Hold each other.”

Serana sighed again and shook her head. “Look. You’re great and all, but what you’re hoping for will never happen. I wish I could say something else, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to either you or me.”

The last bits of her heart that still stuck out on the surface, now sank down into the cold, black oil, submerged forever. She couldn’t stop herself from hiding her head in her arms. Right now, all she wanted was just to disappear. Part of her even wanted to beg Serana’s forgiveness for loving her.

Thankfully, she felt a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Roë… I’m not mad at you, I was just... surprised. And, well, a bit angry that you… well, against my will. But I’m not mad.”

There was nothing Roë could say. Nothing mattered anymore. This whole time, she knew that when the moment came, it would either be pure joy or complete failure. It had turned out to be the last one.

“Roë. I will always be your friend.”

She didn’t care, she didn’t want a friend, she wanted this damn woman to press her naked body against hers at dawn before they closed their eyes. She didn’t need a _damn_ friend, she needed someone to caress her hair and hold her in her arms. This friendship consolation prize was an insult. How could Serana ever begin to think it would fix anything to toss her this worthless scrap?

“We’ll talk about this later, Roë. Now you really have to go see my father. Letting him wait now would be very dangerous. He’s on edge now he’s so close to fulfilling his prophecy.”

So what. Let him rip her into bloody shreds. What did it matter.

Only, the Vampire would not allow it, pushing herself off the bed and to her feet. No way out for her. Roë realized her dead body would do anything it could to make this broken heart last all eternity.

“Roë… this dead human, did you…?”

“What do you fucking care?” she snapped, shutting Serana up.

Without a word, she walked out of her room and dragged herself through the main hall, and to the audience chamber, not caring who saw her.

Lord Harkon was sitting on his throne of stone, his expression thunderous. Part of Roë hoped he’d make good on that expression and defile her body by turning it into blood, flesh, bone and guts, leaving her insides steaming on the ground for everyone to see.

But all he said was, “You get so careless one more time and you’ll spend the rest of your days in the sun pit, burning at every dawn and wailing over your healing wounds in the night.”

Roë said nothing, just looked at the ground. All she could think of was Serana and how much she wanted to wake up with her head on her shoulder. And how she’d never experience that.

“Your negligence cost two important members of this court their lives. Do you even understand this?”

She didn’t reply, just kept looking at the ground.

“ _And look at me when I speak to you!”_

She wanted to defy him, wanted to anger him enough so he’d butcher her, but she couldn’t, and raised her head to face him.

“Orthjolf and Vingalmo were scheming snakes, but they were in their place for a reason. Now you’ve robbed me of two important snitches. Because make no mistake, I would have destroyed them both long ago if they weren’t so valuable at feeding me information about the other, and the accomplices to their plans. Now, this entire balance, which I have spent so many decades refining, is gone.” He paused for effect. “Fura is an expendable asset, and she can rot for all I care, but if she hadn’t intervened, I would have had two powerful usurpers out for my blood right now!”

“With respect, Lord Harkon,” Roë merely said, “Fura only acted in my defence, and I hardly think I’m to blame for the murderous lusts of your two advisors.”

In rage, he threw his goblet against the nearest column so hard it shattered, splattering the pillar with red. “You _heard_ me, you ingrate. You no longer spend one minute away from my daughter’s side. You will guard her life with your own, and even value it _over_ your own. Is that clear?”

She wanted to shout obscenities at him, to transform and claw his face and ball sack off before he burst her apart, but her blood wouldn’t let her. “Understood, Lord Harkon.”

He flicked his fingers at her. “Tell my daughter to come in here. Then don’t say a single word.”

Unwilling, she did as she was told, letting Serana inside and stepping back in front of the throne, shutting up like a good girl, though she loathed every moment of it.

“The Moth Priest spoke of another way to read the Elder Scroll you’ve retrieved,” Harkon spoke. “In spite of your bodyguard’s recent blunder, this was an impressive achievement, as was getting rid of my perfidious wife, and I have you both to thank for it.”

Oh stow it, you hypocrite.

“I think, therefore, that the honour to read the Scroll should go to you. However, we require one more, the Scroll of the Dragon. Once again, it…”

“… falls to us to locate it and bring it back,” Serana said in a bored tone, rolling her blazing eyes. Roë loved and hated her at the same time.

“Indeed,” Harkon said sourly. “But this entire affair will be over soon, my dear child. Then I promise you, you’ll get all the rest you ever need.”

Yeah, she’d rest alright, strung up, slashed open and drained dry above a stone basin.

“Good,” Serana merely said, not showing that she knew all too well what kind of rest he meant. “Now, this last Scroll? Where do we go this time?”

Harkon ignored her defiant tone. Roë suspected it was something he only did if he needed something. “It sits in the library of the College of Winterhold, not far from here. You can go there and be back tomorrow night, easily.” The compulsory tone was unmistakeable.

Serana sighed. “Fine. Here we go again.”

“It should be a simple errand, yes? And you’ve been to the College before, so you’re no strangers.”

“I’ll need some gold to make a donation to the library, like last time,” Serana said without much interest.

“Of course,” her father said, beaming. “Take all you need from the coffers, and more. Modhna’s in charge of security for the time being, but she’ll unlock the vault from you without any problem.”

“Fine. Off we go then.”

Grinning his white teeth bare, Harkon bade them, “Safe travels, both of you. I look forward to seeing you return.”

Roë was sure he did.

When they were back outside, Serana asked, “Was my father not too hard on you?”

 _What do you care?_ “It was fine.”

“Hey, if you want to talk – ”

“I don’t,” Roë cut her off. “Not now. I should go see Fura, tell her I’m sorry. Where are the cells?”

“You know where – ”

“Not those. Where the Vampires are held.”

“Side room of the armoury. But hey – ”

“Not right now, Serana,” Roë could only say. She hadn’t the strength for this, not now. “Just… give me some space. I’ll see you in a bit and then we’ll go do whatever it is your kind and caring father wants.”

“Alright. Just… know that if – ”

 _Stop it, I don’t need your damn pity._ “I know. I’ll be back in a bit.”

As she walked to the armoury, she came by Hestla, who raised her hand at her. “Lady Roë, if you have a moment…?”

“For what?” she said curtly.

“I… the armour you commissioned is almost ready, I’d just need you to try it on so I can make the final adjustments.

“Oh. Quickly then.”

She allowed Hestla to strap the heavy suit on her, though she suspected it was only heavy because she was so weak at the moment. Hestla muttered to herself as she measured and indicated the adjustments to be made on the suit. Though heavy, the suit was surprisingly thin and easy to move in, made of metal of the deepest black, sanded to a matte surface. Silver trimmed the breastplate and greaves, and the plates were strapped together with leather she’d never seen before.

Hestla explained about the suit, but Roë didn’t really listen, only catching that it was made from a material called ‘ebony’ (“not the wood”), and that a lot of work went into actually shaping the metal, including obtaining and pulping a Daedra heart, which Roë doubted was true.

“Thank you for your patience, Lady Roë.” Hestla undid the straps and took the armour off her, placing it on a strong wooden table for further measuring. “I’ll have this done soon.”

“Mm.”

Ignoring Hestla’s puzzled look, Roë proceeded to the cells past the armoury, one of them holding an indignant Fura, who sat on the bench with her arms crossed, her face sulky.

“Feeling better?” Fura asked without much interest when she saw Roë come to stand by the bars.

“Yes, I do.” Not really, but that didn’t matter right now. “I’m sorry about what Harkon did. He… I don’t understand why.”

“I don’t understand either,” Fura said with a shrug, “but that doesn’t make it any less of a reality.”

“I… suppose. Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for saving me. I… won’t forget.”

Fura flapped her hand. “That’s fine. Just wanted to do the right thing even though it wasn’t easy. Look where it got me.”

“I know. I feel responsible.”

“You are.” But with a shrug, she added, “But you’re not the one who took my rank away and threw me into a cell, so no hard feelings.”

Footsteps came near, and Roë saw it was Lord Harkon, flanked by his dog Modhna. Namasur followed on their heels. Roë expected to get chewed out for leaving Serana’s side, but he merely threw her a disapproving glance and motioned for her to stand aside.

He went to stand at the cell door and Fura promptly stood up, out of fear more than respect.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, Bloodmouth?”

Her courage, beaten out of her in Roë’s room had returned, and her hands in her side, she said defiantly, “Yes, I do. I’ve worked for you for decades now. Protected your castle, done everything you asked, even though you never once rewarded me with greater rank or station, just being glad to serve.”

“Serving your Lord is your duty and grants you no special rights,” Harkon merely said, his voice bored. “It is its own reward.”

“… and even when I killed Orthjolf and Vingalmo, I still acted out of loyalty to my Lord,” Fura continued unperturbed. “I saved one of his… extended family from being consumed by two of his subordinates who wanted nothing more than to overthrow him, and this is what I get?”

“You murdered two Vampires of significantly higher importance than yours,” Harkon parried. “Regardless of the reasons, that’s a serious crime.”

“So is trying to consume another Vampire in this Castle,” Fura pointed out, seemingly already resigned to a terrible fate and decided not to show any emotion.

“Indeed, but justice for this transgression must be pronounced by the Lord of the Castle and none other.”

“If I’d run to come and get you – ”

“I’ve heard enough,” Harkon interrupted her. “You are hereby condemned to the sun pit,” Fura’s face fell as she heard it, despair immediately coming over her, “for three years, with exposure of two hours per day.”

“L… Lord Harkon,” the Vampire stammered, looking both crushed and outraged with the sentence. “The sun pit? For protecting my noble kin? You call this justice? What is this, am I made to pay for all the stress you’re going through? I don’t deserve this!”

He was unperturbed. “It’s only three years. Better Vampires than you in this castle have spent more years in there for far less. When you return, you will resume the function of servant. Modhna will take your place. And it will be quite a few decades more until you can even dream of returning to guardian-at-arms.”

Fura stood against the bars, her fingers wrapped around the bars, “Lord Harkon,” she shouted. “Not the sun pit! I don’t deserve this, this is… completely out of proportion! How have I displeased you so that you’d condemn me to this?”

Roë could imagine what this sun pit was, and why Fura was so terrified of it. And despite her own condition, there was no way she’d let this Vampire burn for two hours per day without at least speaking up.

“Lord Harkon, if I may?”

He let out a grunting, impatient sigh and turned towards her, but kept silent.

“I feel partly responsible – ”

“ _You are._ ”

“… and I would ask you to reconsider.”

He shrugged. “Ask all you want, it will make no difference.”

She had to do this, no matter who was looking, no matter how shattered she was inside. She lowered herself to one knee and bowed her head. “I will not ask, my Lord. No, I would, as your vassal, implore you to be merciful.” The indignity burned her soul, but this was necessary. “Fura only committed her crime out of loyalty to you,” and maybe the satisfaction of staking those two disgusting toads, “and punishing your own people for their loyalty would be undeserved.”

“She’s not being punished for her loyalty,” Harkon said back, “but for her terrible judgment. But good effort. Anything else?”

More indignity. He was really making her drain the poisoned chalice all the way to the bottom. “No, Lord, except…” she looked up at him and made her most pleading face, “I would beseech you for a personal boon. For protecting your daughter and helping the prophecy come to pass. I humbly ask for your leniency in this matter. Fura saved my life, I would repay her somehow, and perhaps this will be suitable. But I will need your aid to settle my debt with her.”

Harkon looked down at her, his hands in his sides. The whole prison fell silent. Roë dared not turn her eyes to Fura, but she knew the other Vampire would be as tense as she was.

“Very well. Two years in the sun pit, Bloodmouth. And you, _Lady_ Roë, will leave on the mission I gave you immediately, and you will return successfully, or you can join Fura in the pit. And believe me when I say that when she gets out, you will wave goodbye to her knowing your sentence has only begun.”

This was a far cry from the charismatic, jovial Lord Harkon she’d gotten to know in the beginning. Serana and Valerica had been right, he _was_ far too obsessed with the prophecy, so much that it made him paranoid, erratic, and punitive.

It only made it more important to stop him. And perhaps, if she helped save Serana, she might change her mind and…

No. No, she wouldn’t.

Still, all she could do now was play their game. Harkon’s and Serana’s. Because perhaps Harkon wasn’t the only one manipulating people. It was entirely possible that Serana had hitched Roë in front of her cart hoping to have an ally to eliminate her father with.

Hey, there was a thought. What if Serana and Valerica had planned on this all along? Maybe they already knew Harkon would need all of Serana’s blood, and only needed to fulfil the prophecy to build up their strength, to overthrow Harkon? It was possible. And it was obvious what Roë’s fate would be once Harkon was well and truly dealt with.

Maybe it was just the rejection and heartbreak speaking. She immediately felt guilty for the thought.

And yet, the doubt gnawed at her. Maybe the only one she could depend on was herself. And if that was the case, she’d need allies of her own.

But for now, she’d play along.

After Lord Harkon had left, followed by his lap dog and slave keeper, she told Fura, “Sorry, that’s all I could do,” which was answered by a resigned nod. Then she too left the dungeon to find Serana.

They left immediately, rowing across the strait and then hoofing it towards the College. The only thing Roë had said on the entire trip was that it’d be nice to have some horses, to which Serana had replied that animals didn’t respond very well to their kind. For the rest, the hike was completely silent. Even Serana didn’t talk, bearing a face of pensive gloom, probably not unlike Roë.

Thoughts whirled in her head, speculations about who was playing who in this dirty game, ways she could make sure she didn’t end up holding the hot potato when it came down to the wire, all kinds of plans and angles. But mostly, constantly, she pined for Serana and wanted nothing more than to take back what she did, and go back to the nights of hopeful longing she had ended by trying to attain something that had never been in her reach.

The first time Serana spoke was when they reached Winterhold. “Well, here we are. I’m sure they won’t mind us visiting again.”

Roë kept quiet. Maybe they would mind if they’d realized one of their students had mysteriously gone missing during their previous social call. And surely they would have by now.

“Hey, Roë,” Serana said stopping in the middle of the only street the village had. “I need you to help me on this. Are you punishing me?”

No, punishing wasn’t what she was doing. Mistrusting was more like it. And feeling ashamed. If she was punishing anyone, it was herself. “No, Serana. I’m not punishing you.” _But good job making my feelings all about yourself._

“Then let me help. You’re my friend, Roë, and it hurts me to see you like this.”

_What, afraid I’ll turn my back on you before you’ve used me to kick your father in the dick?_

“Don’t be hurt. This is my problem. I just need to deal with this.”

“You know that if you need to, you can talk to me, right? I feel… responsible for this.”

_Oh, so you just want to alleviate your guilt. Understood._

“I know, Serana.”

_But if I really think you’re taking advantage of me, then why do I love you so much?_

“There’s still time,” Serana said, looking up at the stars. “We can go inside now, and stay in the guest rooms, or we can head to the inn. Whichever you prefer.”

“I’d rather not stay there. They might find out there’s a student missing and link it to us, remember?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. Best not risk – ”

The College erupted in a bright blue blast, soundless at first, then with a short but mighty roar, the shockwave knocking both Serana and Roë over with their behinds into the snow, the wind buffeting them in the face.

Chunks of masonry flew past them, one zipping just over Roë’s head, and pieces of the thatched roofs of the village houses were ripped off, swirling in the displacement of air.

As the noise subsided, leaves came floating down, twisting in the wind. No, not leaves, pages. Scrolls, book pages, loose sheets, everything.

And as they both regained their senses, they saw other things lying in the snow as well. Not just masonry, destroyed furniture, papers and other College paraphernalia, but bodies too. Most no longer moved, after being flung into the snow, making jagged tracks as they tumbled over the ground before lying still.

“Wh… what just happened?” Serana breathed.

“I don’t know. Are you alright?” Roë only realized how hastily and concerned she’d asked the question when it was out.

“I think so. You?”

Roë nodded. “Bones a little rattled.”

“That one’s still moving,” Serana pointed out, getting to her feet. “Maybe he knows what happened.”

Roë got her footing back as well, and still somewhat disoriented, she joined Serana in walking towards the still-moving person, dressed in bluish-purple robes. As they came near, Roë noticed the ginger-coloured goatee and ashen skin. This was the mer who’d showed them directions when they were first here. Blood ran over his forehead and down his face, and his robe was torn, red seeping through the tears. He didn’t look long for this world.

“What happened here?” Serana asked, kneeling by him.

The mer opened his eyes and croaked, “Eye… of Magnus. The… Thalmor… Ancano… the… the Psijic Order f… failed us.” His lips were mashed and he was missing several teeth.

Serana exchanged a glance with Roë, but she didn’t know what he was talking about either.

“Should have… been a… a champion… someone to…” he tried to say, but his breath stalled in his throat and the next moment, he was dead.

“Well,” Serana said flatly, “S’pose that champion had other things to do tonight.”

Yes, very empathic of you, Serana. Though Roë couldn’t bring herself to care too much about what had happened here either, or who this supposed champion had been.

It had nothing to do with them anyway.

“So uh, what about the Elder Scroll?” she asked Serana.

“We’ll worry about that in a bit,” Serana said, her hands in her sides, looking at the destruction. “We should check for survivors first.” Other people had left their houses now, woken up in the night, shuffling out with dazed faces, their jaws slack. Three guards came running, bearing torches. One of them, a woman with a nasty scar across her face, asked Roë, “Did you see what happened?”

“No,” Roë answered. “We just arrived, and there was a big blue blast, tore the place apart. That’s all.”

“There may be survivors,” Serana reminded them. “Come on.”

Winterhold’s College lay in ruins, and there was smouldering rubble everywhere. Some buts of it had even flown all the way to the far side of the village, though thankfully, none of the residents were seriously hurt. Most came to help, and the three guards attempted to organize the aid as best as they could, telling the citizens to concentrate on stopping any bleeding, especially of those who didn’t make much noise anymore. Those who lay screaming, and there were quite a few, should be ignored for the moment. If they could scream, they could live.

Much of the snow was coloured red now, some bodies torn apart into two or more pieces, and many of the Winterhold citizens had to stop their efforts temporarily or permanently after witnessing the mutilated bodies.

Few people could be saved, most were dead instantly, or would be before the night was over. A mage, a mer with white robes who’d apologized himself for being more a translator than a wizard, had come running from the inn, and now came to help, casting what little healing spells he had at his disposal to stabilize the dying, often to no avail.

Roë walked among the bodies, looking for anyone that could be saved, but finding no one. Occasionally, her gaze drifted to Serana, looking around the same way she was, or kneeling by a dying person, holding the victim’s hand for a few last moments of comfort.

An old man with a robe and white beard had been thrown through the air and deposited behind a wall, before breaking his back on it. His abdomen had split open from the impact, and insides bulged out of the cleft in his side. His jaw moved, but he could no longer speak. After briefly checking that no one could see them, Roë kneeled by him, took his hand and said, “I’ll make the pain go away.”

Then she gave herself to the feeding, feeling the old man’s heart beat more slowly, then stop as she ended his life, out of mercy and her own need.

Her need slaked, and uncaring about the consequences of killing during the feed (after all, it had been an act of mercy rather than indulgence, or was that just what she told herself?), she moved on, moving between the bodies of the dead and the wounded, care-givers brushing past her or kneeling nearby. She encountered two more bodies, both very much dead, but the third seemed to have sustained injuries that weren’t life-threatening.

“H… help me stand,” the woman whispered. “Help m… me first.”

“Your wounds aren’t fatal,” Roë said flatly, standing over her. “There’s others who need more help. If you can talk, you can live.” Selfish cunt she was.

“You d… don’t understand,” the woman said, blood matting her brown hair. “… College. I’m the… the Res… toration lecturer.”

Right, this woman could help many more people than the rest of them put together. It hadn’t been selfishness, at least not entirely.

“I need a healer right now!” she called out, but the guard with the face scar shouted back, “So does everyone else. You’ll have to wait, I’m sorry.”

“No, I need a healer, _right now_ ,” Roë insisted. “You, mage, help this woman, she’s the Restoration lecturer of the College. If you can get her back on her – ”

“Say no more,” the mer interrupted her, sprinting towards her even as he left a person to die. He was right to do so, but that didn’t make it any more tragic. “Colette, hold on, I’ll get you back into working order,” he rapped at the woman, kneeling by her and charging a healing spell. He looked pale and tired, and Roë didn’t think his healing skills would last much longer before he needed to rest.

White light enveloped the woman and her two broken legs, with cracks and snaps, set themselves back into place. As they did so, and the woman got to her knees with a pained grimace, the mer who’d healed her sagged forward, panting as sweat dripped from his brow.

“You’ve done enough, Enthir,” the Restoration lecturer said, her hand on his shoulder. “Take a moment to rest, then please, no more spells. Help the soldiers with traditional healing. There have been enough victims this night, don’t add yourself to them.”

Laboriously, the mer nodded his lowered head.

“Can you help me up, child?” the Breton woman asked, holding out her hand, her face pained and moist with sweat. “I’ll be fine, but I need some help standing up.”

It had been a long time since someone had called her ‘child’ affectionately. She took the woman’s hand, warm and clammy, and helped the woman stand.

“Thank you dear. I must ask, have you seen Savos Aren?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“The Archmage,” the healer said, “Dunmer. Bluish robe, red hair in a goatee?”

Wait, that had been the Archmage? Damn, she never could have guessed. “The… the Archmage? Yes, I’ve uh, seen him. I’m afraid he didn’t survive.”

The Breton squeezed her eyes shut and muttered, “This is a most tragic loss, indeed. Thank you, child. Now, I must attend to the wounded.” She called out, “Guardsmen! Please carry anyone who isn’t in direct danger of dying to the hay shed across the road. All of you who are standing near someone who needs urgent care but can be saved, raise your hands.”

At least ten citizens, standing by still-moving bodies, raised their hands as the guards began hauling the wounded to the shed. Many screamed at being moved, but the guards set their jaws and did as they were told.

“I’ll address these people as fast as I can.” She hobbled towards the closest care-giver while instructing two citizens who were hauling a dead man, “Leave the dead where they are, there’s nothing you can do for them now.”

“We’ve done all we can,” Serana said, coming to stand by Roë. “Whatever happened here, it was something incredibly powerful.”

“Mm.” Roë looked out at the smouldering remains of the College, reduced to blackened rubble. “Whatever they’ve been toying with, it was apparently too much for them.”

“It’s tragic,” Serana said, “but we have to get on with our task.”

“Serana,” Roë said, her tone more condescending than she wanted to allow, “the College just got blasted into ruin. If there was an Elder Scroll in there – ”

Serana blew. “Trust me, Roë, Elder Scrolls have survived worse. One reputedly got stomped on by the Numidium, and it still emerged unscathed. The Numidium probably needed a bandage for its foot.”

“Nothing survives such a blast,” Roë said. Nothing possibly could.

“Some _people_ even survived,” Serana said. “Things are hardier than you’d think, especially Elder Scrolls. It doesn’t even have a scratch, trust me.”

Roë didn’t feel like arguing any further, rolling her eyes. “If you say so.”

“Roë, hun, stop being so sulky,” Serana said, sounding mildly frustrated. “There was a great friendship growing between us, and your feelings will never ruin that, but I need you to show me you still want it.”

Of course she wanted Serana’s friendship, even though it tore her inside every minute she spent with her, every moment of unfulfilled love. “I need time, Serana. This isn’t easy for me.”

Serana briefly took her hand, squeezed it, and let go. “I understand. Just… You’re making me feel guilty by being so resentful.”

Again with the guilt. Was this all that mattered to her? Her own feelings?

“Yeah, sure, just… let me be grouchy for a bit.”

“Alright. Now come on, we’ve got an aeons-old artefact to get our unworthy hands on.”

“Mm,” Roë said. “A haystack just waiting for us to find its little needle.”

Serana smiled. “It’ll be easier than you think.”

They proceeded into the smoking, blackened ruin of the College, leaping over the gaps in the bridge. Everyone in Winterhold was too busy helping the wounded, and no one noticed them, so much the better.

When they were halfway across, Serana stopped and turned. “Ha- _ha_. Look, over there.”

Back on the shore stood one pine tree, its trunk at least half a metre thick. And in that trunk, there was a smouldering hole, cut neatly through.

Roë shrugged. “Could have been some masonry.”

“Nu-uh. Hole’s too clean and sharp. Stonework would have splintered the tree.” She looked at it for a moment, her head cocked. “Size is right too. Ten to one this is our Scroll not being impressed by the tree in its way.”

“Fine. Back to the village we go.”

They did, walking back towards the pine tree, Serana estimating the Scroll’s trajectory as it had flown clean through the tree. She was right, Roë had to admit, the hole was far too cleanly cut to be anything else than a powerful artefact. Still, the College had probably had a few of those lying around.

They followed the supposed scroll’s supposed route through the air and came across a low wall, built with chunks of granite, another hole blown into it. On the other side was a long, deep trench, sheared into the earth for several dozens of metres, its edges smoking. At the end, protruding from the deep cleft, was a wooden handle.

With a precocious smile, Serana said, “See? Here we go.”

Roë said nothing and pulled the Elder Scroll free with a few hard jerks. It had been buried almost a metre into the frozen ground. Thankfully, the angle had been extremely sharp, because if not, they probably would have had to dig the thing out, and that would have been miserable, since once it disappeared under the ground, there was no telling how far it had still gone.

She held it out to Serana, who took it and slung it over her shoulder. “Well, this was both easier and harder than expected.”

“Imagine if that thing had been blown out to sea rather than back to the shore.”

Serana grinned. “Shut up.”

 


	47. Falnas: Blood Rights

**FALNAS**

**Blood Rights**

**The Ratway**

 

“Well, it proves enough for me,” Arska muttered, frowning at the letter she was holding.

It had better. It said in clear terms that Maven had written to Astrid, whom Falnas knew was the leader of Skyrim’s Dark Brotherhood chapter, to demand a killing be done. He supposed one could still venture that the target was someone else than Mjoll, but they all knew this wasn’t true. And now Arska did too.

She put down the letter and spoke to Falnas and Mruki. “Thanks for this. I owe you one, ashface.”

“Please,” Falnas merely said. “Letting us prove our innocence was thanks enough.”

“Nu-uh. You _were_ innocent, so letting you prove that is only common decency. No, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate. I’ve found the true culprit because of you, and that means a lot to me.”

He held up his hands. “It was my pleasure. And I was acting out of self-interest for no small part. So what happens now?”

They were sitting in the Bee and Barb, after passing by the late Lioness’ house for both Arska and Mruki to change. Arska had her terrifying dragonbone armour on again, and Mruki had been lent a pair of trousers and a tunic from Mjoll, as well as a pair of boots and a belt to cinch the tunic in at the waist since it was far too broad for her shoulders. The young servant was nursing a bowl of warm milk and honey, while Falnas had treated himself to a bottle of flin. Arska, predictably, had an untouched cup of mead in front of her. The place was virtually empty, it being the small hours, but no one argued it wasn’t better that way.

“What happens now,” Arska said, “is something you might not want to witness.”

“You’re going to… take the law into your own hands, aren’t you?” Falnas asked.

She nodded. “Laws are nice, but they’re man-made. Justice is a higher good, and I intend to deal it out.” She looked at Mruki specifically. “I don’t think you want to be there to see it when it happens.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Or maybe you should come. To the market in, say… an hour? I may have a little surprise for you.”

“Me?” the girl asked incredulously.

“Yes. You.”

“M… market square in… in an hour?” the girl was still not entirely convinced that Arska wouldn’t just chop her block off when the whim struck her.

“That’s what I said, yes. And stop looking at me like I’m going to squash your head on the table. Nine, you look like you’re about to be eaten by a Daedroth.”

“What Arska means to say…” Falnas said, more gently, “is that you’re safe with us. You have nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

“It’s… not easy to get used to,” she said quietly, prompting an eye-roll from Arska. It was easy to be impatient with others if you were a damn demigod with little more to fear than a Daedra Prince coming down to trash you.

“Well stop worrying,” Falnas said. “We’ll finish our drinks, and by then it’ll be time to go to the market.”

Arska stood up, not even bothering to make the mead disappear this time. Falnas had to grin inwardly when he saw her adjusting the crotch of her armour. For all the unstoppable power, she was so damn human at times. “Well, I’m going to dispense some justice. You two take care, I’ll see you in the market in an hour and after that… well, probably never again.”

“Be careful, Arska, and… go easy on them. Not Maven, but the other people – ”

“Whoever stands in my way, dies,” she said, as flatly as if she’d been talking about the weather.

“But… the servants,” Mruki dared to peep. “They’re innocent, they – ”

“Whoever stands in my way,” the Dragonborn repeated, “Dies. End of story.”

The girl knew better than to keep arguing and shut up. Falnas agreed that was probably best. With that, Arska gave them a nod and left.

“Don’t worry,” Falnas said. “She talks tough, but her heart’s in the right place.” He wondered if he wasn’t trying to convince himself more than the servant girl. Damn it, he needed sleep. And hoped Karliah would still be tired enough when he got back, to allow him to curl up next to her and enjoy her warmth.

“I’m… not entirely at ease.”

Falnas shook his head. He knew what she was going to say, and it wasn’t a good idea. “Look, we can’t go and stop her. She’s a good woman, but we need to let her do this.”

Things were silent for a few minutes, Mruki slurping from the warm milk she held in both hands, and Falnas closing his eyes and letting the flin swirl around in his mouth.

“I’m going.”

Falnas opened his eyes, startled to see the girl put down her empty bowl and stand up. “You’re what?”

“Going. To my mi… to Maven’s house.”

He dreaded the answer, but asked anyway. “… why?”

“To stop her. From killing the wrong people.”

“Oh, Mruki,” he said carefully. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t care. You two got me out of there, and I’m grateful, but there are people in there who are victims just like me, and if they try to stop her, you know, because they think they have to, she’ll – ”

“Yes, Mruki, she will. And she’ll do the same to you if you – ”

“I don’t care,” she said adamantly. “You’re with the Guild, that means you know what loyalty is, right? Or at least you should.”

“I do, I do, and I _understand_ that you’re – ”

“Well,” she cut him off. “This is my loyalty. Just like you people, we stuck together when we were all the way down at the bottom. I have to do this.”

She really wouldn’t be swayed. Well, the least he could do was go with her in case he had to protect her from her own good intentions. “Alright, alright, just… let me come with you, and promise me that if… well, that you’ll be careful.”

“I will, but I can’t just sit here while – ”

He spread his palms. “I understand. Let’s go.”

They speed-walked through the cobbled streets, an hour or two before dawn, their breaths coming in white puffs. At least the girl wasn’t bare-footed anymore. Falnas dreaded what they were about to see as they rounded the corner to Maven’s street.

What he saw was on the one hand terrible, and on the other slightly reassuring. But only slightly.

Two servants were on their knees in front of the wooden house, a bit roughed up but otherwise still not too much worse for wear. This couldn’t be said for the two private guards slumped against the wall. The male was holding his arm, blood running between his fingers, while the female had both hands over her face, also dark red with blood. The blood pattern clearly said they’d been dragged out here. Falnas supposed that was a bit hopeful. Better dragged outside alive than killed inside stone dead. The servants had likely been kindly informed that trying to run would result in a very dolorous death, and they’d wisely stayed where they were.

The other thing he saw was a much less encouraging indicator of Arska’s restraint. Next to the door, with no clothes or armour left on his body, lay Maul. The fingers of both hands had blood running between them, one of his hands over his eyes, the other between his legs.

By the Tribunal, Arska had made him pay for his brutality.

Then Falnas’ eyes went up, and when he heard Mruki gasp next to her, he knew what it was about. The last of the servants hung half out the window, draped over the windowsill in his night clothes, his back to the street, and his face to the wall, buried in the guts that hung from his belly. He’d probably foolishly tried to get in the way.

The whine of a dog, quickly cut short, came from inside the house. Then another. So much for the hounds.

“She killed Tavin,” Mruki peeped next to him. “He was… he wasn’t a bad guy.”

“I… don’t think good or bad matters much to Arska right now, Mruki,” Falnas could only say.

As they watched, Arska dragged out a screaming and kicking Maven Black-briar, still in her night gown.

“Do you know who I am?” Maven shrieked, clawing at the fist that held her gray-and-black hair tightly. “What I can bring down on you?”

“Empty threats,” Arska only muttered before throwing her hard to the ground. The next moment, her blade flashed, the sharp edge slicing across the back of the middle-aged woman’s ankles. “Stay.”

Maven let out a squeal, and her attempt to scramble away immediately ended as her legs, their ankle tendons severed, could no longer support her and she went flat on her belly, her face again striking the cobblestones.

“Before I get rid of you, there’s a few loose ends I’ve got to tie up.” That said, Arska marched to the two guards, kicked them off the wall and lifted her blade, intent on bringing it down on the backs of their necks.

“Did they ever hurt you?” Falnas asked Mruki.

“No, I mean, they were a bit rough sometimes, but they never really harmed me. And they were too busy fondling each other to… well…”

“Right.” Now that Falnas was here, he realized he couldn’t stay on the sidelines. In the throes of her vengeance, Arska would murder two guards who were only doing their jobs, and probably right after, several servants who’d done even less wrong. “Arska. Arska, stop, please,” he called out, marching to Maven’s manor. He felt the patter of Mruki’s feet following him.

“Falnas,” she growled, lowering her head in threatening impatience. “I said I didn’t want anyone to interfere.”

“I know you did,” he said, trying not to let the fear sound through in his voice and not quite succeeding. “But this isn’t right, Arska. These people – ”

“ _These people_ are accomplices to several murders, Falnas,” she snarled. “ _Knowing_ accomplices. They deserve what’s coming. The only one who gets to live is Maul here, blind and unmanned.”

One of the guards began to whimper, but Arska’s hand struck him across the face and he remained quiet. Meanwhile a couple of Riften guardsmen were watching from the other side of the street, unsure of what to do. The streets were mostly deserted at this hour, but the guards still sent the occasional loner out on patrol.

“So you’re going to murder them all? Because they worked for a criminal? Come on.”

“Falnas,” she growled, pointing the tip of her sword at him, her face contorted in barely contained fury. “You’ve been a pal, but now is the time to _back off_!”

“No,” a timid female voice came from beside him, “No, Arska.” She was actually calling her by her first name. She was bolder than he thought. “You’ve got it wrong. The guards, they were just… doing their jobs. They were always good… well, decent to us. And the servants… for Talos’ sake, they’re just like me.”

“Your point?” the Dovahkiin grunted.

“My point is that I’m alive because I stumbled on you guys breaking in. If I hadn’t, I would have been right there with the others, getting butchered. How am I different? I’m not! So why do you want to kill these people, who are the same as me, except they didn’t get lucky?”

Arska stood there for a moment longer, her sword pointed at Falnas and Mruki, then finally lowered her weapon. Nice work, girl. “ _Fine_ ,” she spat. “These fools get to live.”

Falnas saw Mruki briefly look up at the dead servant with tears standing in her eyes, but then she simply said, “Thank you, Arska.”

“Now, you two,” Arska threatened, “if you think you’ll stop me from giving this old witch what she deserves,” she scooped up a handful of Maven’s hair and pulled the rest of her up with it, “then I’ll run out of patience. And you _don’t_ want me to run out of patience.”

Both Falnas and Mruki knew the only wise thing to do now was to let it be. “No,” Falnas said, still thinking murder wasn’t the solution, even against Maven, but keeping it to himself.

“Good,” Arska merely snapped. “Come on, you old cunt.”

She began dragging Maven through the streets, to the market, which slowly began to fill with merchants setting up their wares to have them ready at dawn.

Of course. She wanted an audience.

The two guards, in the meantime, ran off, to get reinforcements probably. Arska didn’t seem to give a single damn.

“Come along you two. Something you should hear,” the Dragonborn called after them as she dragged Maven off.

Right. Arska had an announcement to make in the market square. He wondered, and dreaded, what it might be. The woman was so unpredictable it could be anything.

They walked after her, trying to block out the whimpers, squeals, threats, promises and hate from Maven, to the market. People’s heads turned immediately when they heard the noise, and pretty soon, the entire market was staring, open-mouthed, at Arska dragging Maven Black-briar to the centre.

“I’m not going to waste much of your time,” she announced, holding down a struggling Maven without effort as Falnas and Mruki went to stand in the audience, even though both weren’t so keen on seeing what was about to happen. “But I want to make it clear to everyone that this woman, Maven Black-briar, is responsible for several murders, including that of my best friend – ”

“Lies!” Maven shouted, still clawing at Arska’s hand holding her hair. “I never laid a hand on Mjoll, the Brotherhood – ”

“Yes,” Arska interrupted, sounding as if she was holding back terrible fury. “The Brotherhood, by your order. So you’re responsible.”

“I never – ”

“Shut it,” Arska snapped, letting go of Maven’s hair long enough only to punch her in the back of the head, the gauntlet connecting with a hollow crack, then grabbing it again. She addressed the crowd. “Again, since the Jarl and the guard are too inept or corrupt to bring this witch to justice, it falls to me.” She grinned and brought her face closer to Maven’s. “Probably, now, to her dismay.”

“Arska Gvalhir,” an imperious yet unsteady female voice interrupted the spectacle. On the bridge leading to the market stood the Jarl, Laila Law-giver, and a retinue of guards. Her arms were crossed, which already hinted at her uneasiness even if her demeanour did not. “You will cease this spectacle immediately and turn over the citizen you are unlawfully detaining, as well as any evidence you claim to have, to me.” Her flaming red hair played in the breeze, but the rest of her clearly couldn’t conjure as much fire. “She will be tried for her crimes.” The Jarl had to swallow before adding, “As will you.”

Arska’s answer was a short, flat, and completely unassailable, “No.”

Even though the Jarl had probably expected that answer, she still flinched, barely visibly, but persisted, “If… if you do not comply, I will arrest you by force.”

Arska only let out a raw laugh, still holding the struggling Maven by the hair as the citizens in the market looked on, their jaws slack.

“Stupid of the Jarl to intervene,” Falnas muttered to Mruki. “Either her guards will refuse her order, or they’ll get their asses royally kicked. So old Laila will either look tragically impotent, or not in control of her soldiers.”

“Mm.”

“Last warning,” Laila Law-giver flung at Arska, her voice now actually trembling with nerves. “Step away from your hostage or – ”

“I’m not interested in your mewling,” Arska simply said. “If your soldiers want to stay alive, they’ll stay away from me.”

“Enough. You’ve gone too far this time, Dovahkiin. Guards, arrest this woman.”

Falnas hoped the soldiers would have enough common sense not to follow that order. They were more than capable fighters, most of them, but this woman’s powers were borderline godly. He’d tangled with most of the guards in the past, but even though they could be hard-nosed, or corrupt, they were still people and didn’t deserve to die, and certainly not to protect Maven.

Most of the guards only gripped their weapons more tightly, but only a few advanced, and then only by a few steps.

“Have my soldiers become old fish wives?” the Jarl shouted, her voice breaking with nerves. “Secure that woman, do it now!”

With shuffling steps, the six soldiers proceeded towards Arska. Slowly, as if some terrible force was holding them back… and Falnas figured that was probably the case.

“Come on then, you lot!” Arska shouted, her sword pointed at the guards. She seemed to like doing that. “For whom the first deathblow?”

She was absolutely terrifying, and the guards felt the same, stopping and looking at each other through the eyeholes in their helmets. They gripped their swords and spears as if they were the only things keeping them alive. Falnas knew those weapons would never save them.

“I’m… not dying over this,” one of the female guards told the others.

“Me neither,” a male said quietly.

Another soldier lowered his weapon and stepped back. “Forgive us, Jarl, but we’re not paid nearly enough to commit suicide. If you want to arrest this woman, you’ll do it yourself.”

“Maven’s had it coming for a long time anyway,” the female guard added.

“You cowards,” Laila Law-giver shrieked. “Shame on all of you.”

As she left with her soldiers, who backed away, still gripping their weapons with shaking hands, she shouted at Arska, “This isn’t over! I’ll be back to get you!”

Arska only shrugged and muttered, “Anytime, firecrotch.” Dragging Maven forward, she proceeded to a bootblack’s stand, telling the owner, “I need this for a moment.”

The terrified shoe shiner left his stand faster than the eye could see, Arska dragging Maven towards the knee-high stool people the customers put their boots on, leaving a trail of blood from her severed tendons.

Maven had stopped screaming now, seemingly resigned to her fate. She knew as well as everyone else that the Jarl was her last hope of rescue. And now nothing stood between her and Arska. And both he and Mruki knew there was no talking her down this time.

Arska roughly shoved the woman face-first onto the stool, so her chest and face lay on it. Falnas could guess what she was planning. The crowd, meanwhile, had grown to a sizeable throng behind Falnas’ back.

“Repeat after me.”

Maven remained quiet, the side of her face pressed against the bootblack’s stool, Arska’s boot on her cheek.

“Or don’t,” Arska said with a shrug. Again, to the crowd, “Let me just recite Maven’s last will and testament.”

The woman’s face didn’t change when she heard Arska say it, but Falnas knew this was the confirmation of what was about to happen.

“Every septim I own,” Arska announced loudly in Maven’s place, “will be donated to the city of Riften. One third will be used to hire additional guardsmen to secure the city,” not very good news for Falnas and his bunch, but alright. “One third will be bequeathed unto the Jarl for embellishing the city, including a memorial to Mjoll the Lioness.” Yes, that was more to Falnas’ liking.

Maven’s face however, kept down on the stool by Arska’s boot, contorted in anger.

“The last third will be bestowed upon the Orphanage of Riften.” Arska’s eyes went to Mruki, “And my former servant, to be rewarded for her good care, will be appointed as its administrator.”

Falnas looked at Mruki and saw her jaw drop.

“Make it a better place than it used to be,” Arska said to her, genuine warmth in her voice.

“I… I will.”

“With that out of the way,” Arska announced to the crowd, back to her tough-as-nails self. “For her crimes, her murder of my friend Mjoll, and countless other destroyed lives, Maven Black-briar, you will now pay.”

Without another word, Arska took her boot off Maven’s face, and with a quick, two-handed swing, brought down her blade on the woman’s neck. There was a sickening wet crunch as the powerful, preternaturally sharp blade went through the vertebrae in Maven’s neck, and the next moment, the woman’s head thudded hard onto the cobblestones, making a few lazy rolls, the eyes rolled back and her tongue flopping in her open mouth like a dying fish.

Not to miss the chance of additional spectacle, Arska snatched up the head by its now-short hair and held it up to the crowd. The body, meanwhile, slid off the stool and flopped onto the ground, her dying heart spurting blood from the severed neck. Falnas immediately wished he hadn’t seen the brown stain spreading on the seat of Maven’s dress. Or the utterly slack expression on the dead face. No living person could ever imitate the slackness of a dead face, and it was horrible.

“This is what your Jarl can’t do,” Arska called to the crowd, “but what had to be done. And now, she ends in the same place she has sent her victims to.”

Before Falnas could wonder what she meant, the question was answered for him as Arska flung the woman’s severed head over the railing at the market’s edge, sending it into the canal with a loud splash.

“You alright?” he asked Mruki. He felt a bit queasy at the sight himself. He’d seen people die before, but never as brutally and cruelly as this. He only liked Arska as long as she was among friends, not this side of her.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Mruki stammered, holding a hand in front of her mouth.

“I’m done,” Arska said flatly to the crowd, leaving the headless body where it lay, for someone else to clean up. “Thank you for the attention, be sure to transmit Maven’s dying wishes to the Jarl, and enjoy the rest of your day.” She tossed the bootblack a small purse of septims. For the clean-up, how eerily cynical of her.

“You two take care of yourselves,” she said to Falnas and Mruki with a nudge of her head. “I’ve had enough of this sewer of a city.”

Hoarsely, Falnas could only say, “Alright… goodbye, Arska.” He’d had enough of her for a while too.

Mruki only feebly lifted her hand and let it fall to her side again.

“So long,” the Dovahkiin said, turning and walking off the market, and out of their lives.


	48. Keljarn: A Little Nudge

**KELJARN**

**A Little Nudge**

**City of Riften**

He’d never promised anyone – not even himself – that he’d take the bitch to the guard for a fair trial. Fair trials were nice, but in the end, one’s conscience was the ultimate judicator, and he wasn’t some judge who had to hear both parties and then decide. He was there, he knew what had happened, what this woman had done. No judge needed, he’d put her on trial himself. And while the Dunmer had been right, he had to think about his own soul, it didn’t make what she’d done disappear. The girl was dead. Simple as that.

If he could find her, at least.

Sitting on a bench in the middle of the market, watching the vendors take their stands apart, Keljarn considered his options. He only knew her first name, and his harebrained scryer plan had been thwarted since all her blood was off him now. He knew what she looked like, and that she didn’t speak. And that she was missing a finger.

Performing that Black Sacrament silliness was out of the question too. This time, the Brotherhood wouldn’t just send one desperate housewife to tell him off. They’d just murder him in his sleep.

But lo and behold, there, in the light of the setting sun, walked a young, dim-witted Redguard girl. Even though he’d stuck her some septims to compensate her for the terror he’d put her through, the girl still couldn’t resist walking past a market vendor on the way home and let he fingers slide in her pockets.

“Hey, you, stop,” Keljarn called to her. That had been a stupid move. The girl whipped her head around, recognized him, and her eyes going wide, she immediately shot off into a sprint. “I just want to ask you some questions!” Keljarn shouted after her, but predictably, that didn’t work.

Grunting in annoyance, Keljarn also pushed off, running after her as fast as he could and ignoring the throbbing in his still-painful nose as his heart picked up speed. She went over one of the wooden bridges, off the market, and into the alleys where she doubtless felt at home.

Her sprint took her to the ramshackle wooden houses, between which she disappeared. Keljarn rounded the corner, his hand hooked around the wood of the house to keep the curve as tight as possible, and saw the girl scrambling back to her feet as a sandy-haired guard without helmet held his head, which was already bandaged.

Keljarn ran after her, leaping over the dazed guard, and followed her to the end of the alley, his boots slapping on the cobblestones. The girl rounded another corner and so did he, and as he closed in on her, her foot slipped on a greasy puddle of kitchen waste, and her legs went out from under her, dropping her hard on the side of her pelvis. Before she could pick herself up, Keljarn had reached her and grabbed her by the shoulders of her jerking, pulling her up.

“Easy,” he panted. “I just want to ask you something. It’s important.”

The girl looked away, struggling in his grip without much enthusiasm. “Leave me alone.”

“Tell me what I want to know and I will.”

A short silence as she kept looking away, her jaw set. Then, “What?”

“The assassin you were escorting. I need to know everything about her.”

A short and angry “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Look, I know I scared you back there, but believe me, I’m the good guy here.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I know. Look,” he sighed. “I’m going to let you go. Just don’t run, alright? I just want to talk.”

The girl’s jaw worked, but she didn’t say a word.

“I’ll take that as agreement.”

For a moment, he was worried the girl would just scoot off again, but she remained where she was, massaging the side of her hip, her face in a grimace.

“Looked like a painful fall,” Keljarn said, in an attempt to put her at ease somewhat.

“At least it’s not a knife to my throat.”

That was deserved.

“I’m sorry about that, alright? I was desperate. Still am.”

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

He nodded. “Promised. Can we talk somewhere else though? These smelly alleys aren’t really a good place for conversation.”

“They’re my home,” she said, her dark brown eyes flashing. “But yes, let’s talk somewhere public so you don’t slit my throat.” They began walking, and the girl asked bluntly, “So what do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me,” Keljarn said gently, ignoring the girl’s unfriendly tone. She had a right to it. “I just… need your help.”

“All I know is,” the girl grunted, “she’s from the Orphanage originally. So am I.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Go shit, I don’t need your sympathy.” Ouch. “She knew my sister well, but she got sold off and now she’s dead. So too bad, she can’t tell you anything.”

She was testing his patience, but he remained silent.

With a sigh, she continued. “You know she can’t speak. Couldn’t when she arrived. Something when she was young, I don’t know. Don’t care either. All I know is, her father’s buried here somewhere.” She shrugged. “Maybe her name’s in a tombstone somewhere. Give you her last name too.”

“Great, thanks.” It was rather worthless, but she was giving him something. They’d arrived back at the market, the sun low behind the buildings.

“She was always a little runt,” the girl went on. “Nobody liked her much. That’s all I can tell you.”

He’d hoped for more, but contained his disappointment and said, “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

With an angry glare, the girl stood there, holding out her hand.

Of course. He opened his purse and dropped the last of his septims in. He’d just hunt for food on the way back. Not like it’d be any trouble for him to do a quick shift in the night and beat down a deer.

The girl walked off, leaving him to look around the city of Riften from his spot in the square. He might as well go take a look at the cemetery. Maybe he’d find something. He took the last strip of dried meat out of his pack and wandered to the graveyard, chewing the salty treat.

There were quite a few headstones, more than he could possibly scan, but with some logical thinking, he could already eliminate a lot of them. The entire newer section of the cemetery was already out, since the grave must be older than ten years, and the entire west and north wings had headstones which looked newer, and their dates confirmed it. Next, he could eliminate any gravestones that had been well-maintained or which still had flowers or plants set close to them. Siari (it was somehow disgusting to think of her by name) had been an orphan, so no family, no one to tend the grave. So that left the moss-covered headstones and the weed-overgrown graves.

There was a bunch of those near the east side of the graveyard, and a few more behind the mausoleum that served as a secret entrance for the Guild (how corny), but none of those had the information he sought. If any would, because not every grave listed the name of the dead person’s family members. Still, it was a small chance.

He searched on, hoping to find something before the light went.

There it was. A cheap, moss-covered stone that said,

_RELVIG MAERSL, FALLEN IN DEFENCE OF THE HOMELAND_

And below, in smaller letters,

_husband, beloved by Hordis and father, beloved by Siari._

Siari Maersl. Daughter of Relvig and Hordis. Now both dead. He wondered what her mother and father would think of her daughter and her occupation. He couldn’t imagine them being proud. He also couldn’t imagine that cowardly, dirty murderer as the adorable, innocent, giggling, babbling baby she had once been, her parents cradling her and smiling at her with the unconditional love only a parent could, supposedly, feel.

There was no grave for Hordis Maersl, or indeed, any other Hordis, except one who would have been over a hundred by now. Maybe looking up their names in the city register might work. Give him an idea of where she might go next. It was another slim chance, but at the very least, it’d give him some more background on the girl he was chasing.

As he walked to the Jarl’s longhouse, just next to the cemetery, he saw the Dunmer thief who’d first foiled his revenge and then shamed him by giving him wise advice, approaching the stairs too, as a woman in heavy bone armour walked down. The Dunmer said something, and with blinding speed, the blonde woman had her sword at his throat.

He recognized her now, this was the Dragonborn again. Damn, woman, why did you keep showing up? He ducked behind a juniper bush and observed them. The chance that the Nord woman recognized him as that unwanted guest on her construction site a while ago was extremely slim, but with this woman, he didn’t want to take the chance. He hoped the blonde wouldn’t lop the Dunmer’s head off, but it was better to not get involved. After a brief exchange, the woman lowered her weapon and the tension seemed to grow a little lighter. Another few words traded, and they both walked off. The woman didn’t look very happy, but Keljarn doubted if she ever was.

When they were gone, Keljarn made his way to the steps, climbed them, and pushed open the door to the longhouse.

“The Jarl is occupied at the moment,” a young servant told him. “May I help you?”

“Uh, perhaps?” Keljarn said to the lad. “I’d like to access the city’s public records, if I may?”

“Certainly.” The boy led him to a wing of the longhouse that contained all the city records. It wasn’t a grand collection, but Keljarn was confident it would at least have a bit of information about that murdering scum and her parents.

He pulled open a drawer (the papers were suspended in a nifty hanging-file system he’d never seen before, and he wondered why other archives didn’t use it) and flipped to the letter ‘m’, taking out the big sheaf labelled ‘ma-me’.

“Maersl, Maersl…” he muttered to himself, stopping when he realized it, not wanting to pronounce that filthy name out loud. There had been quite a few Maersls in Riften, but most of them were quite dead.

Maersl, Relvig. He already knew the father had died in battle in some nondescript war, ‘in defence of the homeland’, which was usually a phrase used to cover any old romp, from a petty territory dispute to a cataclysmic war. The sheet had nothing more, but it did confirm once more that this was indeed the killer’s father, as the last line simply said, “children: Siari (f)”.

Hordis Maersl’s sheet was a few pages back, and didn’t reveal much useful information either. Apparently she’d been a member of the Riften Guard and had died in a house fire. No surprise, buildings burned down all the time around here. Here, too, was the last line, “children: Siari (f)”.

He flipped forward again, but Siari Maersl’s entry only listed her father’s and mother’s names, and a single line saying, “orphaned at age six, consigned to Riften Orphanage”. Nothing he didn’t know already. Damn it, this was a dead end.

He closed the drawer a bit harder than drawers were meant to be closed, prompting a disapproving mouth-curl from the servant who was keeping an eye on him from across the room, and stood thinking, leaning on the file cabinet, his head lowered. His hair tickled in his face and he pushed himself off the desk. “Thanks for the help, kid,” he muttered at the servant, then left the archives. Why was he even here? He should have known he wouldn’t find anything? And yet, somehow, his gut had told him to come here, as if he was being steered here by some unknown force. Perhaps this search was a hunt of its own kind, and he knew whose territories hunts were, and who helped the hunters. But then what? Why was he here if not for the archives?

“One more thing, my Jarl.”

A red-headed woman wearing the tiara of the Jarl strode past him, with her aide in tow, a mousy man holding a paper.

“Yes, what is it?” the red-headed Jarl asked impatiently, waiting by the door.

The mousy man followed her, his head low. “You are invited as one of the guests of honour to the wedding of Vittoria Vici and Aesgir Snow-shod, in Solitude, in two days. They would be overjoyed with your presence.”

The Jarl snorted. “I don’t think so. I don’t like either of them and I have enough to do here.”

And as she pushed the door open and walked out, Keljarn heard her say to her advisor, “Besides, a little bird told me the wedding won’t be all that safe. Any wedding that might get a visit from the Brotherhood is a good place to stay away from.”

 


	49. Siari: Breaching Security

 

**SIARI**

**Breaching Security**

**Near Falkreath**

 

“I could have sworn I heard something,” Veezara said quietly to Siari after she’d given him a questioning look at his skittish behaviour. “And it’s not the first time.”

Siari put her hands on her forehead, making her index and middle fingers protrude upwards.

“No, not a deer,” Veezara said quietly, still looking out at the foliage behind them. “Deer don’t follow people.”

They remained still for a few minutes, listening intently, but everything remained silent.

“Hm,” Veezara said at length. “Must have been my imagination.”

Siari felt like telling him those words almost always came before a silent takedown, but she couldn’t be bothered to write that all down, so she just shrugged, finished her rabbit leg and tossed the bone in the grass. After their brief dinner pause, they set off to finish the walk back to Sanctuary. They’d made the journey back from Solitude together, after Siari had changed back into her leathers and leaving the torn dress with sadness in her heart. Veezara had promised to steal her another one, and he had better make good on that promise. Veezara had been exceptionally jumpy the entire journey back, especially once they’d gotten back to the more wooded part of Skyrim, constantly looking over his shoulder and occasionally stopping to listen. Siari had never travelled with him before, so she didn’t know if that was normal for him, but she figured that wasn’t likely. Maybe he was just nervous. Everyone was these days.

Her hand throbbed, the knuckle of her little finger now done with bleeding, but still painful, and when she’d changed the bandage a few hours before, the wound had still been an angry cauliflower of red. Perhaps Gabrielle had some kind of ointment to ease the pain.

They reached Sanctuary not long after, Siari’s feelings at returning home were mixed, but it was always nice to have a few hours of rest and company after a job, even despite all the tensions.

“Here we are,” Veezara announced. “I assume you’re eager to jump into one of those hot baths you warm-bloods enjoy so much?”

Siari wanted to make a joke about him lying on a rock in the sun, but it was nowhere near funny enough to bother with the writing for.

“Astrid will definitely be glad to hear – ”

The door to Sanctuary flew open, and a rush of garish colours flew out, smacking right into Siari and bowling her over. The next moment, a man with long white hair leapt over her, his bare feet only centimetres from her face. She heard a cry of pain and as she got to her hands and knees, winded from the impact, she saw Arnbjorn tumble to the ground, a dagger in his leg.

“Chicken legs!” he snarled at her, trying to get up, but going down again as his wounded leg buckled underneath him. “Get that damn jester, he murdered Astrid! Get him!”

A cold feeling of terror sunk into her stomach, to her own susprise. Astrid, murdered? She’d always thought she’d see Astrid’s death as regrettable but necessary, but she was baffled to find that hearing of it made her feel horrible.

Veezara gave a quick nod, said, “I’ll get him,” and rushed after the jester, into the woods.

Siari gave Arnbjorn a wild and frightened look and mouthed, _Astrid?_

“Help me inside,” he growled. “I should be with her in her last moments.”

The man weighed as much as a mammoth, but thankfully, he could still use his one leg, and she was able to support him enough to take him back inside, her heart pounding from both the exertion and the emotion.

The door to Sanctuary opened, and the anxiety fell off her, its weight almost physically gone. Astrid sat on a chair, her arms crossed on its back, and her upper body stripped to the breast bindings. Gabriella stood behind her, smearing her green ointment on Astrid’s shoulder.

“Siari,” Astrid breathed, her voice weary and pained. “Good to see you’ve returned safely.”

“She’ll be fine, Arnbjorn,” Gabriella assured the huge man who still leaned on Siari’s small frame. “Cicero couldn’t even kill a sleeping paraplegic.”

“Although it seems he throws better than he stabs,” Astrid pointed out, nudging her chin at her husband’s leg.

Arnbjorn’s weight came off her, and the man stumbled over to Astrid, clumsily kneeled at her chair, and wrapped his arms around her.

Gabriella noticed Siari’s probably very obvious confusion and explained, “Cicero lost his mind. Well, even more of it than before. He just walked up to Astrid’s back, without warning, and just… stabbed her, screeching something about not letting her affront the Night Mother any longer.”

Siari saw Astrid’s mouth move, but she heard nothing, only the Night Mother’s voice in her head. _Pursue my servant, my Listener. He has committed a terrible crime, but he only did it to serve me. It falls to you to pass judgment on him. Your reptilian brother has seized him, and is returning him here. If brought to face his victims, they will certainly enact a quick sentence on him. They must not, the choice and the judgment must fall to you._

Without another word, Siari turned and ran for the door, leaving three confused faces behind.

“Oh hello my dear,” Festus said cheerfully, approaching the door to Sanctuary with a bag of food in his arms, but Siari simply ran past him, into the woods, to intercept Veezara and Cicero. The Night Mother had spoken, so she had to do as she was told.

She slowed her run when she saw the Argonian march back in the funny gait they all had, dragging a screaming and thrashing Cicero by the collar.

“I have him,” he announced. “Did he really murder Astrid?”

Siari shook her head, and made a stabbing motion at her own shoulder.

“Oh, thank Sithis,” Veezara breathed in relief. “Now, let’s take this little rat back to face, as they say, the music.”

Siari remained where she was and shook her head.

“What?” the Argonian said in surprise. “We’re not taking him back?” Cicero struggled silently, but Veezara held him without effort.

Siari shook her head again and pointed at herself. Then she tapped the dagger at her belt.

“Yes but surely… Astrid will – ”

Siari pointed at herself again, then at her ear. Then she pointed her thumb over her shoulder, back to Sanctuary and shook her head again. _I am the Listener, not Astrid._

“Certainly, Siari, and I praise you for it, but – ”

She swept her hand in front of her. _No discussion._

“Oh, sweet Listener,” Cicero pleaded, “Have mercy on your poor, misguided – ”

Siari held up a finger at him, shutting him up instantly.

“Very well,” Veezara simply said. “I understand, _Listener_. You kill him, nobody else does. Nevermind that he didn’t attack you, but Astrid.” He shoved Cicero to the ground. “Go ahead and feel important.”

She didn’t just _feel_ important. She _was_ important.

The Argonian stomped past her and returned to Sanctuary. She’d hurt his feelings, but it was his own fault for questioning her. When she was certain he was gone, she turned to the jester, who sat in front of her, on his knees, his hands held up at her, the fingers laced together. “Oh Listener, I only acted to serve the Night Mother. Foul Astrid and her egomania will bring the Brotherhood to ruin. She had to be stopped, and it fell to weak, poor Cicero to do it. All I did was serve the Night Mother.”

Siari drew her dagger, turning his pleading into a whimper. A voice spoke in her head.

_Cicero was a fool to attack Astrid, but he truly believed he would serve me best by doing so. You are my Listener, and free to dispense justice as you see fit. I will not fault you for exacting the ultimate price for his transgression, but know that Cicero is a valuable servant, and I would be grateful if you spared his life._

A brief moment of silence.

_But the choice, my dear Listener, is entirely yours._

He deserved to have his throat cut for attacking one of Siari’s family, in fact, he deserved it just for giving Siari that scare alone, because that feeling, the feeling of… maybe caring about someone?... had been extremely uncomfortable.

On the other hand, if the Night Mother considered him a valuable servant and worthy of a stay of execution…

“Have mercy on poor Cicero, sweet, beautiful Listener?” the jester whined.

She exhaled hard through her nose, then grabbed the pathetic little man by the red-and-black cap, pulling until it tore free, bells and all, and threw it to the ground. Then she snatched his wrist, pushed his hand on top of the fallen cap, palm upward, and made her dagger come down, impaling his hand as the blade slid neatly between the metacarpals. Blood spurted out, drenching the cap, and she let go.

Cicero hadn’t made a sound during the bloodying of his cap, and now sat there, on his knees, holding his wrist and whimpering so quietly she almost couldn’t hear.

Standing up and holding the bloody cap, Siari looked down on him, raised her hand and shooed him away.

“Pr… praise be to you, Listener. Cicero will not forget your cruel mercy. Perhaps some day… we will meet again, and I will be able to repay you for sparing me.”

Siari made an impatient face and again flicked her fingers at him to make him go away. He got the hint this time, and scurried away like a frightened animal, scrambling over the leaves and branches until he was out of sight.

_You have my gratitude, Listener, even more than before. Perhaps Cicero’s role in our little drama has not entirely come to its exit._

Nice to hear, but Siari hoped the bloody cap would be enough to convince her ‘family’.

She returned to Sanctuary to find Astrid in her bedroom, lying on her bed, doubtless at Gabriella’s insistence. “Veezara told me you insisted on executing Cicero yourself. I’ll take the liberty of assuming you did this out of loyalty to me?”

Siari neither confirmed nor denied it, and simply held up the blood-soaked cap.

“So he’s dead then?”

Siari only nodded, only feeling a little bit bad about lying.

“Siari…” Astrid asked, looking completely sincere and honest, even vulnerable. “I promise I won’t retaliate against you if it’s true, but I’m just asking you to please, be honest… You… didn’t have anything to do with this attack, did you?”

She felt indignant and insulted at being asked the question, but she realized all too well that showing that would make her look more suspicious than innocent, so she just made her most solemn face and shook her head, then held up two fingers. It was easy to swear when it was the truth.

Astrid breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe you. I’m sorry for asking, I just… I’m not sure of anything anymore, these days.”

Siari understood her, a little bit too well, in fact.

“How are you, child?” Astrid asked, sounding dead tired. “With all the confusion, I haven’t been able to welcome you back properly.”

She was alright, and conveyed that with a half-shrug. Then she held up her injured hand and made a pained face, making a pulsating gesture around it with the fingers of her other hand.

“I can imagine. Get Gabriella to take a look at it, then have yourself a nice bath and some rest. I need some too, and we’ll speak more in the morning. You can give me your report then, although since you’re back, that means it went off without trouble, no?”

She gave another half-shrug. _More or less._

“Well, get some sleep, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Sleep was a pretty good idea. She nodded a goodnight to Astrid and trudged to the bath, and after a quick rinse-down, curled up between the blankets. Gabriella wasn’t there, probably mixing up some more poisons or potions, and she rather enjoyed the alone-time. She worried surprisingly little about whether or not Astrid had been convinced of Cicero’s death by just the cap, and fell asleep without too much trouble.

Astrid’s sleep hadn’t been as refreshing as Siari’s had been, as she could tell by the dark rings under her ‘mother’s eyes when she came in to listen to her ‘daughter’ give her report about the last job. Well, listen, more like read, because Siari had quickly jotted down the relevant points, so all she had to do was hand Astrid the sheet and wait until she was done reading.

In the bathroom, with Gabriella taking care of her hand injury, wasn’t the most comfortable place to give a report, but it would do. Astrid didn’t seem to mind Gabriella being there, so neither did Siari. She was wearing fresh leathers and still enjoying the feel of cleanliness from the bath she’d taken earlier that morning. If she had to report from a stool with her friend smearing ointment on her injury, then fine.

Astrid gave a weary smile when Siari held out the paper and read it. “Thanks, dear.” Her eyes went across the paper. “Mhm. Mhm. Mhm.” She clicked her tongue. “Got spotted too early, did you?” she asked, sounding mildly amused.

Siari made a sheepish grin.

“Good thing I sent Veezara then. He told me about your… original escape method.”

Original, indeed. Siari’s bones still hurt. And that dress, damn it, what a waste.

“Ready for your next job?”

Siari nodded, her face confident. _Bring it on._

“No big crowds, no congregation of guards this time, just a simple, clean kill. Mark will be defenceless and alone. Probably a welcome break from all the dangerous stunts this little shindig has you pulling, huh?”

She nodded. Had to admit it was.

“Festus has the details, have a chat with him before you go, but basically, it involves killing someone he rather admires, and taking his place.”

“ _His_ place?” Gabriella echoed, unasked. “Astrid, I don’t know about you, but I, for one, can certainly confirm that Siari is very much female.”

“I know,” Astrid said with a tired grin, but her eyes showed her irritation at Gabriella butting in. “But that won’t be a problem, since nobody knows whose place she’ll be taking.”

“Mm-mm.” Gabriella muttered. “Just saying.”

“Your concern is… appreciated, Gabriella.” It clearly was anything but.

“Oops, sorry,” Gabriella said when Siari winced from an overly enthusiastically applied glob of ointment on her still-open knuckle.

“So, anyway,” Astrid went on, “Go have a talk with Festus, he’s done some preliminary work, getting the mark’s identity and location. He’ll have more information.”

Siari nodded.

With a twist of her shoulder, Astrid muttered, “Daedra-damned jester. Good thing he doesn’t even know which side of a dagger is the pointy end.”

She had to agree. For a member of an assassin’s guild, Cicero had been surprisingly inefficient. True, it wasn’t easy to blindside a fellow assassin, but he really had botched that one.

“Speaking of idiots attacking our people,” Gabriella said, her eyes still on Siari’s hand, “Any news on that crazy bastard whose fault it is that I’m spending my valuable time patching up my quiet friend here?”

Astrid pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed. “No, Gabriella. No news on that crazy bastard.”

Maybe the son of a bitch had drowned in the shit water, but Siari didn’t buy that for a second. It was certainly clear that Astrid did _not_ like to be reminded of that, which only made Siari more suspicious. Something was up with that damned animal that had come after her, and Astrid knew more. Siari was certain of it.

“Siari,” Astrid said, her tone low and threatening. “I told you not to give me that look.”

She wasn’t even aware that she was giving any kind of ‘look’.

“You asked me if I had anything to do with it, and I swore I didn’t. You better start taking me on my word, same way I’ve taken you on yours last night.”

Except there was a big difference between some crazed fucker who knew exactly where she’d be and when, and some crazed fucker who had just stabbed someone on the spur of the moment.

“I _said_ I didn’t know anything about what happened to you,” Astrid snapped, her finger pointed at Siari, “And I _don’t_. Now show me some Daedra-damned respect and _accept_ what I say. Because if you can’t trust me, then I can’t trust you either. And I don’t want to spend my time suspecting you of prodding that idiot madcap into stabbing me.”

Gabriella snorted at that. “You _really_ think Siari made him do it? Astrid, really, you need to get some more sleep, because you’re seeing ghosts.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Gabriella,” Astrid said, her tone flat, but anger clearly simmering under the surface.

“Yes, well, I’m giving it regardless,” Gabriella continued, unperturbed. “Because ever since this whole Listener thing began, everything around here has been suspicion and shifty looks. I don’t know why you’re acting this way, but it’s having the opposite effect.”

“I _said_ I didn’t recall asking – ”

“And _I_ said I’m giving it regardless,” Gabriella bit back. “We used to be a family, Astrid, and with all the cramped moves you make to pull us closer, you’re only pushing us farther away.”

“So it’s come to this, has it?” Astrid sighed, her lower lip trembling, but with anger or grief, Siari could not tell. “My own family speaking against me. Disrespecting me in public.” Her eyes went straight to Siari. “Repaying my kindness by turning others against me.”

One of the rotten things of not being able to speak was not being able to interrupt people.

“Well, looks like it’s working,” Astrid said. “I’m done talking. Go see Festus, then get the job done.”

She turned abruptly and left, slamming the door shut behind her.

After a brief moment of silence, Gabriella simply said, “I love you both, but I’m getting seriously sick of the both of you.”

Siari let her jaw drop in amazement. What in Oblivion had _she_ done? She hadn’t even said anything.

“Oh come on. You know better than anyone that people don’t need words to say nasty things.”

Oh that was horse dung.

“I didn’t see you making any effort to calm or assure her,” Gabriella simply said. “Listen here, if we, as a family, want to get through this, you’re going to have to make a bit of effort too.”

Indignant, Siari pointed at the door to make sure Gabriella knew that Astrid was the one causing the problems.

“No, Siari,” Gabriella said. “Instead of pointing fingers and assigning blame, maybe you should stop for a moment and think what it must be like for her. She brings you into the family, surrounds you with nothing but love, and then you suddenly up and become the Listener, completely hollowing out her position as our foundation and our guidance.”

Siari inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling her face contract in anger.

“ _I know_ you had no control in becoming the Listener,” Gabriella said quickly, cutting off her excuse to get angry. “And I know you never meant to supplant her, but you did. I agree she could have taken it more gracefully, even could have stopped it from happening if she’d been a bit more confident, but ‘could have’ won’t fix this. The two of you need to sit down and talk. Well, ‘talk’, you know. Communicate.”

Siari simply sighed and looked away. As if she was to blame for any of this.

As if she sensed her thoughts, Gabriella added, “It’s not about who’s to blame. It’s not about who’s responsible. It’s about what _you_ can do to fix this. It’s about _you_ being able to tell yourself, ‘I’ve done all I could’. If Astrid still wants to continue this simmering feud you two have, then at least you’ll know you’ve done the right thing.”

Except, it _was_ about who was to blame, it _was_ about who was responsible. Astrid was the one acting like a child, Astrid should be the one apologizing and working to solve this.

Gabriella sighed and redid the bandages on Siari’s hand. “I haven’t gotten this old to still think in terms of whose fault it is or who’s got the obligation to take the first step. All I’m telling you is, you can’t change what Astrid does wrong, but you _can_ change how you react to it.” She rose and simply said, “Think about what I’ve said. Again, I love both of you to bits, but sometimes I just want to smack the both of you for acting like damn children.”

With that, she made the door slam a second time.

Everyone always knew everything better. It was easy to wag fingers and judge from the side-lines, but that was just what people did, wasn’t it?

No, it was Astrid’s job to fix things, not hers. She wasn’t a sucker.

She found Festus having a late breakfast, because of course she did, and sat down opposite him.

“Oh! My lovely. Come for your next job?” he said, his mouth full of food.

Siari nodded patiently and made a turning gesture next to her mouth, indicating he could go ahead and chew-and-swallow before continuing.

He did so, gobbling down the meat pie, then explained. “Now then, the next mark is… well, sad to say, someone you may have heard of.”

She motioned for him to continue.

He looked at the wood of the table, his gnarled fingers twisting around each other. “You’ve heard of the Gourmet, yes?”

The what now?

His incredulous look said enough. “ _The_ Gourmet? The Tamriel-wide phenomenon? The greatest chef on Nirn? My dear, have you been living under a rock all these years?”

No, the Orphanage, but it was the same thing.

“The Gourmet is…” he told her, his voice unstable with admiration, “a miracle worker in the kitchen. His books have inspired the kitchens of housewives, tavern owners, fine diners and even the courts of kings and queens.”

Must be some guy then.

“And you… you will have to murder him.” He seemed genuinely upset at the thought. “The greatest chef this realm has ever known.”

She placed her hand on top of his and lowered her face with a curious look so it came back into his vision.

“Right, of course,” he sat up straight. “You’ll want the details. I went to question the only person who knows the Gourmet’s identity. Or I should say ‘knew’, heh.” The memory of setting someone on fire seemed to improve his mood somewhat at least. “Ahem. It turns out, the Gourmet is, would you believe it, an Orc.”

Hah. That was rich. An Orc. As if the refinement of their tastes went anywhere beyond ‘meat raw cook meat rhaargh’.

“I _know_ ,” Krex laughed, his mirth returned at seeing her sceptical face, though probably only briefly. “I didn’t believe it at first either, but let me tell you, my source was very… convincing. It’s hard to lie when your toe hair is on fire, believe me.”

She didn’t doubt it for a second.

His mood plunged again when he thought of what he’d have to inform her about. “Anyway, the Gourmet, he… he’s an Orc named Balagog gro-Nolob, bless his soul. He is currently working on a book on the integration of fruits and ales in meat dishes. You will have to… dispatch him before he finishes it.”

He looked genuinely heartbroken.

“He is staying at the Nightgate Inn, in the mountains to the North, I’ve marked the location on your map. After he is… dealt with, you will have to take something from him. You see… the Gourmet is to be the head chef at the next banquet in the honour of the Emperor. Only, he will not be attending. You will be.”

Siari snorted in laughter, then stood up, placed her fist on her pubis and extended one finger, making a ‘know what I mean’-face.”

“I know, I know,” Festus said with a grin. “But that’s the thing. No one knows who the Gourmet is. No one but us, and a handful of other people, who will be nowhere near the banquet. The Gourmet’s identity is so secret even his gender is unknown. Believe me, if you have his writ of passage, they will believe you.”

If he said so.

“Siari,” Astrid stuck her head inside. “More for you to do. See Babette.”

And the head was gone again.

“I swear,” Festus said irritably, “Astrid needs to lighten up. Maybe Arnbjorn needs to put in a little more effort between the sheets, I don’t know, but this is getting ridiculous.”

No need to tell Siari that.

“Anyway, go ahead and see Babette, she was scouting the Empire’s security, last I heard. We may be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

Siari ticked her fingers against the edge of an imaginary hood as a gesture of thanks and went to see Babette, with Festus giving her the parting words, “Siari, dear… make sure a man as exemplary as the Gourmet is not put through any undue suffering.”

Oh, you big softie.

“Well hello little girl,” Babette said with a smile when she spotted Siari in the atrium. “Astrid let you know I had something for you?”

She nodded.

“Alright, see, this whole kill-the-Emperor plan? There’s still some more preparation to it. This whole Gourmet thing? I’ll take care of that. Don’t worry,” she added with a giggle, “I won’t upset Festus by making the poor guy suffer.”

Alright, so?

“Right, what Astrid wants _you_ to do, is to assassinate a slightly more difficult target, one I’ve been spotting for.”

Well there was a surprise, her job just got a lot harder and more dangerous, and she had Astrid to thank for it. Perhaps the Night Mother would beg to differ. She’d check later. So who was the target then?

“We can’t just walk up to the Emperor and kill him. It’d get messy, and well… painful for us,” Babette explained. “His personal guard, the Penitus Oculatus, won’t let anyone get close to him. Protecting the Emperor is all they do, and they’re damn good at it. Or at least,” Babette said with a twinkle in her eye, “as long as they’re focused.”

Right, so who did she have to kill to make them lose focus?

“I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it,” Babette said, peeved at Siari’s impatient look. “So, the leader of the Penitus Oculatus is some big-head named Maro. Now, he’s not going to be here just yet, but, but, but… his son, whom he loves more than anything, will be.”

Aha. That would probably work. Kill the son, and the father will be grief-stricken, make bad decisions and generally not have his head in the game. Made sense. Still, though, it was the son of the leader of the Emperor’s personal guard, and Siari knew better than to hope he wouldn’t be trained to take over his father’s position in due time.

Not exactly the same as an old, fat Orc chef. Thanks, Astrid.

“Yes, I know”, Babette said. “He’ll be one tough cookie. But, silver linings, silver linings!”

There had better be some.

“He’ll be scouting the places the Emperor will visit, you know, assessing security, gaining intelligence, all that boring stuff? And he’ll be doing so accompanied by only a handful of guards.”

Oh good, that meant there would only be a handful of swords biting into her if she got spotted.

“Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. You’ll be fine. I’d go with you, but… the sun does no wonders for my skin.”

What in Oblivion was that for an excuse? Anyway, Astrid could change her assignment all she liked, but the Night Mother would have the final say.

“Here’s his itinerary, stole that while those bucketheads weren’t looking. Trust me, they probably wouldn’t even recognize an assassin if one stabbed them in the back. Which,” she giggled, “is not entirely unlikely to happen.” She handed Siari a paper that said which locations the mark, apparently called Gaius Maro, would visit and when. He’d start at Dragon Bridge and go from there.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing you can do,” Babette said.

Siari raised an eyebrow.

“Killing him is nice, but even nicer would be to kill him _and_ make everyone think he’s a traitor. Imagine how ineffective the Penitus Oculatus would be if their leader was not only broken with grief, but hunting his own people in a paranoid craze as well.”

She had to admit, not very effective.

“Soooo…” Babette sing-songed, “if you plant this letter on him, which Nazir had made by an excellent forger, then, well, Gaius Maro will go into history not as the soldier who died for his Emperor, but the traitor who sold out his Empire.”

Another piece of paper made its way into Siari’s hand.

“Don’t plant the wrong paper, that’d just make them scratch their heads. Good luck!”

Babette pattered off, leaving Siari alone with the itinerary. Morndas, Solitude, the Emperor’s Tower. Not the best place to commit murder. Tirdas, Windhelm, the Palace of the Kings. Yeah, no. Middas, Riften, Mistveil Keep. No, no, definitely no. Turdas, Whiterun, Dragonsreach.

Now that she could work with. She knew Whiterun a bit, but wait, no. That was where the Companions had their hall. No, they’d stick pointy things in places that really didn’t like pointy things stuck into them.

Fredas then. Aha, Markarth. Markarth was doable. She knew the place from the job she’d done for the rather rancorous apothecary girl, and there were relatively few people who wanted her dead. Which was always a plus. She inspected the entry in more detail. Maro would be presenting himself at Understone Keep during the day, and from there, travel to the guard tower for dinner and sleep. Murdering him in his sleep was perhaps easiest, but there was the matter of him being inside a guard tower, and those had the tendency to actually have guards in them. The Keep itself also wasn’t a prime location. Too crowded, with the wrong people. She’d have to either get him before he got to the Keep, as he moved to the guard tower, or when he left the city. In transit.

That was, _if_ she was going to do this. Astrid could try and boss her around all she wanted, but she only listened to the Night Mother. There was no Cicero to grovel at her feet this time, just her and the cold sarcophagus. She stood in front of it for a minute, and then the Night Mother spoke.

_Astrid’d change of heart puts you at risk, Listener, but the Mark must be eliminated regardless. I am confident you will be cautious, and will succeed._

Well, that was that, then. If the Night Mother agreed, she had no choice but to complete the contract. She hoped it wouldn’t go as woefully wrong as the one she’d fulfilled at Jorrvaskr. She probably wouldn’t get so lucky a second time, and these would be trained bodyguards, not young hopefuls. She wouldn’t stand a chance against them.

As she turned to leave, she heard the Night Mother again.

_My Listener, one more thing. I am not at liberty to give you a direct warning, but know that if an agent of one of my Brothers or Sisters should seek to take your life, then neither I, nor the other’s protector will be permitted to intervene directly or lend you our power._

What was that about? She’d mentioned a similar thing before…

_This is all I can say. Go now, Listener, and be safe._

Still puzzled by the Night Mother’s last words, Siari filled her saddle bags, loaded them onto Shadowmere, and kicked the steed sharply in the flanks. Shadowmere took her to Markarth faster than any horse, and she arrived on Turdas evening, in time for a quick dinner and a few hours of sleep, after which she spent some time scouting the city, marking the path between the Keep and the guard tower especially, and then the path from the tower back to the walls. There was a suitable overhang leading to the Temple of Dibella, but dropping down from there would be impossible, since it was too high. She could probably snipe the mark with a bow, but then how would she plant the note? Tying the paper to the arrow had a considerable chance to not convince bystanders of its authenticity.

Unless she got the note on him or his possessions before killing him. There might be times when his personal effects were unattended. It would mean improvising, but dividing the contract in two steps seemed like a much more feasible method. Even better, of course, would be to make the killing look like an accident, so the legitimacy of the note would be even less in question. She’d already made a gargoyle fall on people’s heads, why not try that again? Markarth was, after all, a city of dizzying heights, treacherous walkways, and dangerous depths.

Siari wondered if the people who’d designed this city had had even basic safety standards in mind.

Oh, but there it was. Between the guard tower and the entrance to the Keep, and in the middle of a path of stairs and angles, lay a wooden bridge over a rapidly running stream. Anyone falling off the bridge would land on the smoothly-worn stones below and only have a wet pair of pants and bruised backside to show for it, but only a metre farther, the stream turned into a waterfall, cascading downwards more than fifteen metres. Which meant that if someone were to fall _and then_ slide a metre further, a wet outfit would be the least of their concerns. And for that slide to happen on the slick, wet stones, all it took was someone hitting the ground of the stream in the right direction. Say, if by some strange accident, only one side of the bridge were to collapse and act as a big slide, depositing the unfortunate bridge-crosser into the stream so he was propelled over the edge.

Oh, how elegant that would be. Now all she had to do was strategically weaken the bridge and make sure it fell exactly when it needed to, and think of a way to get the note in Maro’s pack.

She’d have to worry about the note later. First, the preparatory work. It was just before dawn, the best hour for stalking, and after a few furtive looks, she lowered herself over the edge of the bridge, her boots making no sound as they found their footing in the rapidly-moving stream. It was only ten centimetres deep, not exactly the Ilinalta.

No one saw her, the gloom of the pre-dawn sky making her invisible, and after that, the shadow of the bridge hiding her from the sun as she cut a few ropes, sawed through some supports, and secured the waterfall-side of the bridge with a single strut with a rope tied around it. The support firmly in place and mostly invisible, she cut a few more ropes and weakened the bridge’s support structures to such a degree that pulling the strut away would bring several planks of it down like a hatch, striking the bottom of the stream at such an angle that the body on top would slide down, and hopefully, be thrown over the edge.

She was done just in time to see several men in red uniform walk to the Keep, the man in the centre adorned by a crown of laurels on his head. Just in case it wasn’t clear who the dignitary was. Siari didn’t mind, it only made her job easier.

From her concealed spot under the bridge, Siari tracked them from one opening between buildings to the next, until they disappeared through the doors of the Keep.

Now then, to plant the note. This would be the best time, in fact, the only time, to do it, since Maro was not supposed to survive his trip to the guard tower. Planting it after his demise would be impossible, so there was only one right moment.

She found herself in the Keep atrium, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, a single female guard walking towards her.

“Hey, little girl,” the guardswoman said. “The Keep is only for soldiers and nobles. Has the Jarl granted you an audience?”

No. No he hadn’t. Or she hadn’t.

“Then I’m sorry, dear, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” But when the guardswoman noticed the dark leather clothing, she began, “Wait… I know you,” her hand going to her weapon.

There were no witnesses, no one around. The woman was only a bit taller than she was, and female. It was too good to pass up. With one quick move, Siari drew her dagger and rammed it upwards, up into the guardswoman’s helmet. Blood drenched her hand and the woman gurgled, her arms flailing weakly before she collapsed to the ground, the handle of Siari’s knife still sticking out the bottom of her helmet.

She dragged the corpse to a dark corner, stripped it, and put on the scale mail, breeches and helmet on top of her leathers. Easy, they were a few sizes too big. She tore the underclothes off the dead body and used them to wipe the blood off the front of the chain mail. The gear she wore smelled like sweat and metal.

That done, she quickly covered the naked dead body with the loose rocks she found in the atrium. She lay behind several stalactites, invisible to anyone who wasn’t explicitly looking. She’d probably be there until people finally came to investigate the smell.

Siari felt an odd but brief discomfort in her heart at the guard’s fate.

At least she’d be able to walk around without arousing suspicion. How these guard idiots still hadn’t realised those closed visors made for excellent infiltration potential, she didn’t know. Now she could just stroll around in the Keep and nobody would mind, as long as she didn’t make it too clear that she was away from her post.

“Hey Lanaris,” one of her ‘colleagues’ said, coming to walk next to her. “You got a minute to talk after the shift? I feel… uncomfortable with how we left things yesterday. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

Siari hoped the late Lanaris was a quiet type, and just put her hand on the other guard’s shoulder and nodded.

“Thanks, I’m glad you’re willing to listen, at least. I have market shift, but we’ll speak later, right?”

She nodded again and he walked off. Ugh, she hated it when her marks turned out to be human beings.

Through the door, she could hear talking voices, all male, but couldn’t make out the words. It was probably the mark talking to the Jarl, about all kinds of security-related matters.

“Guardswoman,” one of the Imperial soldiers next to the door scolded, in a weary voice, “I know you bucketheads normally run the show here, but not today, today we’re the ones calling the shots. And didn’t we specifically say the Jarl’s throne room was off limits to everyone except the Jarl, his housecarl and the Penitus Oculatus? Didn’t we say that? Because I really do remember us saying that.”

The arrogant bastard deserved to get kicked right in the balls, but she couldn’t arouse suspicion, so she just raised her hands and backed off. This rectal fistula had been posted outside the door, to keep people out, while the rest had accompanied the mark into the Jarl’s chamber. And well, well, well, they’d all left their packs outside, with this idiot watching over them.

“Go on, get your worthless ass out of here.”

She did as she was told, ignoring the insult of, “I swear, god damn yokels trying to gawk all the time,” muttered under the Imperial soldier’s breath, but she didn’t go far. Once she’d rounded the corner, she turned around and slowly creeped back, spying on the soldier between two stalactites. Now all she had to hope for was that the parley took long enough for this shit eater to get bored and leave his post, no matter how briefly.

“Another one of you simpletons?” the Imperial suddenly exclaimed, his eyes on the other side of the antechamber. Briskly, he began marching up to another guard who had come in to sneak a peek at the apparently famous Gaius Maro. “I _told_ you, no bucketheads here today. _You_ stand here all year long when nothing happens, _we_ secure this place when it actually matters. How is that not clear? Are you people mentally deficient?”

He marched up to the guardsman and slapped him across the helmet. “Huh? I’m talking to you, farm boy!” He gave the guard a shove and kept railing. “You idiots think you’re part of the big boys, do you? Think we’re the same? Your friends? You’re just nobodies watching a damned door. That’s all you are! Don’t soil this audience with your presence!”

On he went, expounding on the insignificance of the city guard. Siari hoped he was enjoying it, because he’d have to keep doing it for just a while longer, until she’d had the time to creep over to the packs and shove the letter inside the one that was clearly the customized and most expensive one. With a quick hand motion, she pushed the crumpled letter into a side pocket, and cleared off, chuckling as she heard the Penitus Oculatus big-head hurl insult after insult at the face of the unfortunate guardsman.

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Guardswoman, what are you doing here?” She turned and found herself helmet-to-helmet with another guard who, judging from the gold trim on his helmet, was the late Lanaris’ commanding officer. “Get back to your guard post!” Two more guards were at his side.

She raised her hands again, but before she could do anything more, the officer shouted again, “Were you about to call me ‘sir’? I am not a ‘sir’, I work for a living, you _moron_! You will call me sergeant. And if I like you, you get to call me ‘sarge’. But guess what? _I don’t like you_! Proceed on the double to the atrium where you will stand guard duty for six hours! You will do a fine job! Do I make myself clear, maggot?” A short pause, and then immediately, “And don’t you dare open your pie-hole! Move it!”

Well, good thing he didn’t want her to say anything. She quickly hurried back to ‘her’ station, feeling more and more like she’d done the unfortunate guard a favour by stabbing her through the chin.

The letter securely planted, she threw out the guard clothes and stashed them in a dark corner. She hoped the guard’s absence wouldn’t be detected too quickly, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

There was one last thing to do to make her bridge-trap certain to work, and she knew where to get her last bit of paraphernalia.

The pretty, though mentally slightly unstable girl behind the counter of the apothecary shop went instantly pale when she saw her, her face turning so white the tattooed stripe over her nose looked jet black by comparison. Of course, she probably thought Siari was here out of a ‘leave no witnesses’ policy, but no. That wasn’t the case.

Silently (how else?), Siari slid a note over the counter. The girl picked it up with trembling hands and read out loud, “Tr… troll fat?” She looked up at Siari, her jaw slack. “You want to b… to buy troll fat?”

Siari only nodded.

“I… uh… of course. Of course, we… always have a… a steady supply,” the girl stammered. “How… how much do you need?”

“Muiri,” the old woman at the mixing table scolded. “Get your foot out of your mouth and serve the young lady.”

“Uh… yes, yes, of course.” The girl, still not overcome the surprise of seeing Siari replied, stumbling towards a rack on the other side of the shop, taking a medium-sized jar of troll fat from the shelf. “Will… will that do?”

Siari smiled and made a ring with her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the girl’s terrified bumbling.

“Th… that will be... ah…” The poor thing didn’t even dare charge for it. Siari raised an eyebrow, telling her to go on. “… Twenty-five septims… please?”

Taking care to look extra casual, Siari counted the required pieces of gold, and laid them into the apothecary assistant’s hand, noticing how the other girl winced when their skins briefly touched. Funny how she was terrified and disgusted by her former hireling, after all, they were both murderers, Siari with a knife, and Muiri with gold.

Siari left the store, smiling at the old woman chastising the young assistant, and helped herself to a bucket and sponge left unattended by a window cleaner out for a snack. She went to the bridge, set foot on it (it felt just rickety enough to support someone, and yet collapse when the support was pulled away), then went to her knees and started to wipe the fat-slathered sponge over the wood. Everyone who saw her would think she was just cleaning the wood and would probably not even take notice, even with the leathers on. The sun burned hard now, but she just kept smearing the fat over the wood, but had to break off before she was done when she saw the four Imperials walking back out. She scurried away, lowered herself under the bridge after making sure nobody saw, and sat there, concealed in the shadows, the wet string in her hand.

The voices came closer, and the shadows of the men on the bridge were clearly defined – so clearly that she could make out the laurels on one of them. She waited, waited as they came closer, talking amongst themselves.

The sound of the first boot bonking on the wooden bridge was the signal to send her muscles taut. Another boot, and another. They were on the bridge now, all four of them, and Siari saw the strut bend under their weight. She hoped it wouldn’t be under too much pressure for her to pull it away, but from the looks of things, it’d probably just snap on its own.

They were in the middle of the bridge, right near the troll fat smears.

“Huh,” she heard one remark. “Wood’s in bad shape, starting to rot. See?” She heard the sound of a boot being kick-scraped across the planks.

Sure, he could keep right on thinking that was the reason the bridge was so slick.

“Not our problem,” another voice said.

The shadows lined up, it was time.

Setting her teeth, Siari pulled with all her might. The strut bent, cracked, and finally snapped.

“Whoa, the bridge, it’s collapsing!”

Damn straight it was.

Above Siari, the wooden planks cracked and snapped with deafening noise, and just as she’d predicted, they came down, their ends banging into the rocks in front of her feet, and down went the Imperials.

She heard confused curses, splashes and finally one, two, three death cries as the soldiers and their leader went over the side, falling to their deaths. One of them still clung to the railing the others had slid under, she could see from the shadow, and he pulled himself to safety. He ran off, shouting his leader’s name, while Siari sat in the shadows, waiting for the chance to slip away. There were quite a few gawkers who’d come running, but they all ran after the soldier, taking the stairs down to see if they could still help anyone. Fat chance.

When all the footsteps had run down the mountainside, Siari got to her feet, sneaked to the edge of the stream, and hoisted herself up.

She permitted a short glance over the side, and saw three bodies, one still moving, the others still. Gaius Maro was one of the motionless ones. The water downstream was coloured red.

Mission accomplished. She darted away from the scene, scooting from building to building, until she was certain she was in the clear.

She sighed in contentment, put her hands in her sides and arched her back to relieve the painful, fatigued muscles. All she had to do was go and find Shadowmere, and return for what would probably be the final nail to hammer into the Emperor’s coffin.

“I knew you had something to do with that bridge mysteriously collapsing.”

The man walking up to her made her heart briefly stop. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, though he looked older since his hair had gone grey prematurely. The heavy axe in his hand made it clear he wasn’t here to talk.

He’d found her. She didn’t know how, but the bastard had found her.

“Your killing ends here.”

He strode towards her, and Siari did the only thing she could.

She started running.


	50. Roë: Unseen Visions

  **.**

**ROË**

**Unseen Visions**

**Castle Volkihar**

“My wondrous daughter returns,” Lord Harkon welcomed them (well, Serana) with arms outstretched when he saw the Elder Scroll slung across her back. Roë even got acknowledgment when he said, “Safe and sound, as I had expected from you both.” It wasn’t much, but it was better than she’d expected. Of course, Harkon’s giddiness at seeing the Scroll doubtless explained his good cheer.

Serana handed the Scroll over, but Harkon stopped her. “No, my sweet child, as I said, the honour of reading the Scroll should befall you.”

“The honour of going blind? Why, thank you, kind father,” Serana sneered.

Harkon laughed as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “My dear daughter, no. The Moth Priest knows of a way to read the Scroll without exposing oneself to danger. It involves a ritual, but for the time being, he is unwilling to disclose the details.” With a chuckle, he added, “He fears I will no longer consider him necessary after his revelation.”

“Yes,” Serana grunted. “How mistrustful of him.”

“Isn’t it?” He grinned broadly. “But fear not, Garen Marethi is preparing a serum that will have him singing like a nightingale.”

“Thank Molag Bal for that,” Serana said, exaggerating her tone of relief to mock her father.

He either ignored it or didn’t notice (Roë suspected the former), and motioned for them to follow. “Let us see what Garen Marethi has… cooked up.”

They followed him to the library, where the priest was strapped to the table, stripped to the waist and still blindfolded, not that that made any difference. Garen Marethi greeted them with a silent bow.

“Now then, my good friend Dexion. I may call you Dexion, yes? We’ve come to know each other these last weeks, after all.” Harkon asked affably, as monstrously charming as he had been the first day Roë had entered these gates.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” the Moth Priest simply said. “But that doesn’t change anything. I am not disclosing the ritual for you until I have a guarantee of my life and my freedom.”

“You do not take me on my word? I am wounded,” Harkon put on.

“Not you, no,” the Priest said. “But perhaps…”

“Yes, Priest? Perhaps what?” Harkon asked in a bored tone.

“I know your daughter is present, and from what I know of her, I trust her far more than you. If she promises to let me go and escorts me to the mainland, I swear I will tell her all about the ritual before we part ways.”

Serana exchanged a look with Harkon, who returned it. Abruptly his face turned bitter. “No. You will tell _me_ what the ritual entails, not my daughter.”

Interesting. Now which of them did Harkon distrust? The Priest, or his daughter? Or both?

“Father, if we can resolve the situation peacefully like this, why can’t I – ”

“I said _no_ , Serana,” Harkon snapped, his previous amicality gone. “The Priest does not get to dictate the terms. _I_ do.”

Serana threw up her hands but stayed quiet.

“Now, Priest. The situation, and the balance of power, are clear as day. You will either tell me about the ritual voluntarily and trust my word as a nobleman, or you will tell me unwillingly, and forfeit any chance at mercy.”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” the Priest spat, “Without your guarantee. If I tell you, I’m dead anyway, so there’s nothing you can do to me.”

Casually, inspecting his fingernails, Harkon said, “I can torture you.”

The Priest laughed hoarsely. “I’m not very good under torture. The ritual is very complex and I can’t stand pain. I would say all sorts of things.”

Harkon was not bothered at all. “Yes, I imagine you would. That’s why I took precautions. Garen, if you please?”

Marethi bowed. “At once, Lord Harkon.”

“Dexion,” Serana said quickly as Marethi decanted the serum. “You don’t have to do this. Just tell him now and – ”

“Serana,” Harkon scolded. “He’s made his choice.”

The narrow-faced, ginger-haired Vampire held the serum out to Harkon. “My Lord, if it would please you…?”

With a dismissive wave of his fingers, Harkon said, “You do it, Garen. Orally, but if you must, intravenously.”

Roë wasn’t too bothered by the whole thing. It was only a truth serum of some sort. The Priest would divulge the ritual, and what would happen next, was bound to happen anyway, serum or not. She shared the Priest’s conviction that once Harkon had what he needed, he was a dead man.

“Drink up, Moth Priest,” Marethi said, holding the cup to the Priest’s lips.

Predictably, the old man spat the drink out in Marethi’s face, prompting a surprised yelp from the Vampiric alchemist.

“For Oblivion’s sake, Garen, don’t offer him a drink, _force_ him to drink. You,” he pointed at Roë. “Pinch his nose closed.”

“Pinch his…?”

“ _Do it_ , you dog.”

“Father – ”

“ _Quiet_ , Serana. This Priest will talk, no matter what it takes.”

Roë wanted to disobey, but knowing this would result in her destruction, her body did as it was told. With her thumb and forefinger, she clamped his nostrils closed, her cold fingers feeling his warmth. Marethi tried, again, forcing the Priest’s jaw open and pouring in a gulp of the liquid, then quickly holding his jaw closed, his hand over the Priest’s lips.

“Good. Now if he wants to breathe again, he’ll have to swallow the serum first.”

And indeed, the Priest struggled for a moment, but then his larynx rose and fell, and they knew he’d ingested the liquid. They both let go, allowing the Priest to suck in air with loud, laboured gasps.

“The serum,” Marethi explained to his company, “works by disabling the part of the brain that controls the inhibitions.” He tapped his own skull with his finger. “It won’t _force_ him to speak as such, but it’ll just convince him it’s a very, very good idea to do so.”

“As long as it works,” Harkon grunted with his arms crossed. “Tell me of the ritual, Priest.”

“I… I will tell you nothing.”

Harkon glared at Marethi, but the alchemist said hastily, “It takes some time to work, my Lord. It takes some time.”

Both Serana and Roë knew what would happen to the herb mixer if the Priest didn’t speak.

Abruptly, Dexion began humming a tune. All Vampires, even the regal and composed Lord Harkon, stood looking at each other like guppy fish.

“The… serum disables inhibitions,” Marethi explained, wringing his hands nervously. “The Priest basically does and says everything that comes into his mind.”

_“I met a curvy lass_

_Who ate naught but grass”_

Now the Priest started full-on singing, a dirty song from his young age, probably.

_“She kicked out at me once or twice, and how_

_But she was a great fuck, even for a cow!”_

Harkon’s face was a thundercloud.

“D… Dexion,” Marethi stammered. “Tell our Lord about the ritual.”

Suddenly, the Moth Priest burst into cackling laughter. “The ritual? The ritual?” He laughed again, then broke into song again, singing “The ritual! The ritual!” over and over.

“Priest!” Harkon shouted, slamming his palm down on the wood next to Evicus’ ear. “How is the ritual performed?”

“It is perforrrmed,” he creaked in a creepy, mad voice, “by your daughter taking off her clothes and riding that smooth pale body on top of me!”

Uneasy looks were exchanged. Seemed Dexion had entertained more thoughts than just unhappy ones during his stay here. Roë felt like she should tear his throat out for his thoughts and words, but… they were no different from hers, except in the form of desire.

Her heart ached.

“You’re trying my patience,” Harkon said, but it was Garen Marethi his eyes were fixed on.

“Forgive me, Lord Harkon, the process can be… unpredictable.”

“I can _see_ that,” Harkon rumbled.

Perhaps if someone else tried. “Dexion,” Roë said gently, kneeling by him. “Please tell us about the ritual. We need to know, and if we do, we’ll leave you alone.”

“Oooh, the brooding Bosmer,” the Priest leered. “Silent and melancholic. I’d ask you not to leave me alone, quite the contrary, but if I were to open your legs, I’d probably discover icicles hanging between them.” A cackling laugh followed.

Anger flared up in her chest, but she remained calm. “Dexion. Tell us. What does the ritual entail?”

“The _ritual_ ,” the Priest sing-songed, “Involves going to a place called…” he paused for effect, then announced bombastically, “the Ancestor Glade! Just east of Falkreath! The Scrolls will help!”

Frantically, Harkon gestured for Garen Marethi to take notes.

“Good, Dexion,” Roë said gently. “And what are we supposed to do there?”

“You take your two slender, delicious bodies, you take the Scrolls,” he explained, “And then… and _then_ …!”

“Then, what, Dexion?” Serana asked.

“Then… _then…_!”

“Yes, then?” Harkon barked.

With a pout and in a childish voice, the Priest complained, “If you’re going to be rude, I’m not telling.”

“Ssh, father,” Serana silenced him. “Delicate touch needed.”

“Dexion,” Roë asked again, “What do we do in the Ancestor’s Glade?”

“You _cut…_ the bark!”

“Alright… how?”

“You use a special, special, _special_ knife!” He paused for effect again, and then exclaimed triumphantly, “The Draw Knife!” He fell into a fit of laughing. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this! I’m just telling you everything you need to know!”

“Where do we get the Draw Knife, Dexion?”

“It’s right there,” he cackled, finding it all hilarious. “Right there in the Glade! You can just pick it up!”

“So how do we cut the bark?”

His cackling stopped, and he went on in a mysterious voice, as if he was telling a horror story. “ _Very_ … carefully.”

“Yes, but specifically – ”

Abruptly, the Moth Priest arched his back, bared his teeth and let out a stifled grunt.

“What’s this?” Harkon demanded to know. “Garen! What is happening?”

“I… I think – ”

Still frozen in his arched position, the Moth Priest slowly opened his mouth, letting a slow, peeping wheeze escape.

“I… I’m not sure if – ” Roë began, but before she could finish, the Priest began bucking and shaking, letting out guttural growls and squeals of pain. The next moment, a spray of blood was ejected from his nose as air was forcibly expelled through it. Roë backed away, watching the Priest buck and jerk on the table, blood now running rapidly from his nose, and a few moments later, from his ears also.

“Garen!” Harkon roared. “If he dies – ”

No sooner had Lord Harkon mentioned the possibility, than the Priest began to gurgle, gave one more kick, and was still.

“Well,” Serana said, her voice hollow. “Roast my raisins, he’s popped it.”

“Garen,” Harkon growled low. “Explain yourself.”

“My Lord, the… serum disables, and… and damages part of the brain. I must have been… overzealous in preparing it.”

“Modh _na_!”

Oh, dear.

“My Lord,” Garen stammered, “this is… only to be expected with alchemy and humans. It’s… guesswork to determine the right dosage.”

Meanwhile, Modhna strode in, the two death hounds straining at their leashes. She obviously didn’t have them under her control as Fura did. “Yes, Lord Harkon?”

“Take this… _incompetent_ quack to the dungeon. He can join Fura in the sun pit!”

“But my Lord!” Garen protested. “He spoke! He told you about the ritual! You have what you needed!”

“And what if I had more questions afterward?” Harkon thundered. “Have you thought of that, you witless herb masher? What if there are more rituals to complete? What if – ”

“My Lord, you’ve asked for the impossible! Getting the dosage just right would have – ”

“ _Silence_! Look at him. He’s not even good for blood anymore.”

Roë opened her mouth to speak, but felt Serana’s hand on her upper arm. When she looked back, Serana simply shook her head.

“Come on, Garen,” Modhna said flatly. “Fura will be glad to have some company.”

As he was led away, Garen stopped and locked eyes with Harkon. “You know, _Lord_ Harkon, I find myself all but wishing you’ll fail to fulfil the prophecy. I wonder what’s worth more, having my agonizing time in the sun pit ended when the sun darkens, or seeing the sullen disappointment on your face when your entire plan fizzles into nothing.”

Instead of exploding in terrifying rage, Harkon merely said, “Take him away.”

That was two in the pen now, and both for piss poor reasons.

Two people very, very, _very_ unhappy with Harkon. And with the way things were going, Harkon’s enemies were likely to be Roë’s friends.

“Let me guess, father? Roë and I will be given the ‘honour’ of travelling to Ancestor Glade and executing some vague ritual?”

He sighed. “I know, my sweet daughter. I ask much of you.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “But you are the only one I can trust. You can see the traitors and incompetents I surround myself with. And you, you are my most trusted, my most resourceful, my most dependable asset. I would – ”

“Asset?” Serana echoed.

“You know what I mean, child. I can trust you, and you alone.”

That was true. He couldn’t trust Roë, that was for damn sure.

Serana sighed. “We’ll leave tomorrow night.”

With a broad grin, Harkon said, “Good. I knew I could count on you. Now, enjoy a meal and a day of sleep. We will speak upon your departure.” He turned to leave, but then checked. “Oh, and if you’re in the dungeons, tell Namasur to come clean up this mess.”

Oh, they were going to the dungeons alright. Roë needed something from there.

Silently, they crossed the main hall, to the dungeons. At the top of the stairs, they walked past Modhna and the hounds, returning from putting Garen in his cell. Roë didn’t envy him. The pain of the sun pit, for two hours per day, must be excruciating.

“Namasur,” Serana said flatly when they descended the stairs, “There’s a dead Priest in the laboratory who needs to be cleaned up. Lord Harkon has tasked you with the burden.”

“Of course, Lady Serana.” Roë only got a toxic look as he departed.

They settled for vials for the time being, each draining one, making them feel rejuvenated enough. But Roë needed two more. She hoped Serana wouldn’t start asking questions when she saw her taking them, but it was idle hope.

“Roë… you’re not still hungry, so why are you taking more?”

Serana’s tone suggested she knew damn well why, but Roë stayed quiet.

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Roë.” Serana said. Was it a warning or a threat? “And I want no part of it. If my father – ”

“If you want no part of it, then don’t bother me,” Roë snapped. It was out before she knew it.

“Fine,” Serana said, spreading her hands. “Fine. Just so you know, if my father finds out, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“I don’t _need_ you to do anything!” Roë shouted. “I’m not your helpless little protégée, and you’re not the mighty, benevolent saint protecting me from your father. And I’m tired of you treating me like – ”

“Hey. Roë. Hey… easy,” Serana said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. Roë involuntarily laid her fingers on top of it. “You’re not helpless, you’re not little, and you’re not my protégée. And I’m not mighty, and I certainly am not a saint. _You_ saved _me_ , remember? I’m just saying, my father won’t hurt me because he _can’t_ hurt me. Not yet.”

Roë sat down, feeling weary and defeated despite the powerful blood inside her. “I’m tired of being seen as your… your pet.”

Serana kneeled before her. “I don’t see you that way, Roë. I see you as a friend. An equal. The others… who cares what they think?”

Not Roë. She only cared about what Serana thought. But she knew Serana was just sparing her feelings. She was inferior, not only in terms of power, age, authority, charisma and intelligence, but also because Roë had wanted Serana, but Serana hadn’t wanted her back. No two people could be equals, not when that happened.

Serana was just being nice. Or maybe, no, she wasn’t being nice. She was being something else.

Before Roë could stop herself, she said to Serana, “You condescending hypocrite.” She regretted it as soon as she’d said it, but not entirely.

“Hey, Roë, you’re really trying my patience now,” Serana threatened.

With a snort, Roë simply said, “Isn’t that the phrase people always use when talking to their lessers?”

Serana rolled her fiery eyes and got back to her feet. “You’re being impossible. Fine, go give those vials to Fura and Garen, to win their favour, because I know that’s what you’re going to try. Go ahead and try to get them on your side. But believe me, they fear my father ten times more than both of us put together. And if you still need to be convinced of that, go see what Fura looks like these days.”

“Look, just… get off my back, alright?”

“As you wish. You better get going before Namasur comes back.”

She stomped off, and after feeling sorry for herself for another few seconds, Roë did the same, hiding the vials under the abdomen of her breastplate. She went up the stairs, to the Vampire holding cells. There was no one there, apart from the two prisoners.

“Ah, Lady Roë,” Garen said, his arms crossed behind the bars. “Has Lord Harkon recovered from his folly and told you to set me free?”

Roë shook her head, holding out one of the vials. “I’m sorry, but I can’t free you. I’m already risking a lot by giving you these.”

Garen snatched the vial out of her hand and drained it. “Thank you, Lady Roë. You… will attempt to reason with Lord Harkon before the night is through, will you?”

“I’ll… try,” she lied, “but he’s not very receptive.” She looked around the cell and saw a bundle of rags crouching and shivering in the far corner, in the dark, almost invisible. “Fura?”

A weak whimper came from the corner. Roë only now noticed the smell of burned meat.

“I fear she’s not very presentable at the moment,” Garen said, trying to sound apathetic, but unable to hide the fear in his voice. “I believe she would prefer you didn’t see her in her current state. She even ceased her agonized wailing when she heard footsteps.”

“Fura…?” Roë asked carefully. “I brought you something.”

Garen held out his hand. “Please, I’ll pass it to her.”

“I’d rather – ”

“With respect, Lady Roë, she is in terrible pain and needs to be left alone.”

Roë felt terrible guilt over the fate of the girl who’d saved her, but Garen was right. She was in enough pain without having to show it to the one responsible for it. She handed Garen the vial. “Hurry then.”

The hand that briefly came from the shadows to snatch the vial from Garen’s hand was damaged and burned, entire swathes of skin blackened and peeled back, exposing the burned flesh beneath. Perhaps Roë imagined it, but she even fancied seeing a wisp of smoke curl up from the weeping wounds.

There was the sound of a few swallows, and the vial tinked over the ground, rolling back to Garen. He returned the two empty vials to Roë and said, “I’m know she’s grateful. As am I.” With a faint grin, he added, “There is clearly more humanity left in you than Lord Harkon would approve of.”

Humanity, or just strategic sense? “Alright. I have to go, before anyone sees me, because there’s no point in getting thrown in there with you.”

“Lady Roë,” Garen implored as she made to leave. “The sunlight won’t kill us, but every minute we have to suffer in it is pure torture. I beg of you, speak to Lord Harkon, or have Lady Serana speak on our behalf. This horror is… beyond words.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she lied again. “But he’s not being reasonable now. I need to wait for the right moment.”

“Of… course.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do anything more for you now.”

She had to leave. If anyone saw her here, she’d get more than a disapproving frown from Harkon. They only knew part of the ritual, so he would be even more on edge than normally. She wondered if it was even a good idea to spend the day here. For all she knew, Harkon might decide from one minute to the next, to drag Serana and her out of bed and wring them both out like dish rags. All he needed was for the ritual to be completed… and the Bow itself, and he could probably just do those things on his own. And she might be angry with Serana, and mistrustful, but that didn’t mean she wanted her to die. She cared about Serana, even now, more than about herself.

_Oh Serana, why didn’t you want me…_

She returned to the hall, furtively dumped the empty vials on one of the tables, and headed to bed. Fura and Garen would not sleep this day, or the days coming.

She awoke without incident, from a dreamless sleep. Well, not sleep. Just… unconsciousness.

Serana stood waiting for her in the great hall. “Ready?”

She didn’t seem very cheerful, but maybe she it would be a good idea to leave her to stew for a bit. “Yes, Serana. I’m ready.”

“Come on.”

The atmosphere during the walk was as cold as the weather, and the only things Serana said were complaints about the latter. They slept the day away in a cave in the central region of Skyrim and fed themselves with the blood of two of the wolves who had, unfortunately for them, seen the two frail-looking humans as easy pickings for the seven of them.

They turned to the east just past Falkreath, Serana claiming she could feel a tug of the scrolls every once in a while, barely perceptible, but definitely there. Roë didn’t know if that was even true, but better a possible guide than none at all. After all, these were Elder Scrolls, they’d already shown to rather make fun of the laws of nature and magicka.

The tugs proved to be accurate, as they soon found themselves looking at a face of rock, covered with creepers, thorns, vines and even tree roots.

“If there’s something behind here, it’s impassable right now,” Serana remarked, looking up at the wall of plants and rock.

“At least it’s not behind a waterfall,” Roë remarked sourly. “That would have been a bit too predictable.”

As Roë finished speaking, the Elder Scrolls on Serana’s back emitted a gentle glow, and the plants, slowly at first, moved out of the way, opening the path to a cave in the stone.

“Three cheers for the Scrolls,” Serana said, heading into the cave.

Roë drew her shortsword and followed.

There were no threats, no incidents inside the cave itself, and after a short walk, they found themselves looking up at the night sky again, in a secluded grove, ringed by unscalable mountain faces. In the middle stood an enormous, gnarled tree, at least ten Roës or Seranas tall, looking down at the glade from its perch on the hill.

“Well, the Priest was right so far,” Serana pointed out, drawing Roë’s attention to the knife that lay on a pedestal in front of them, looking impossibly old and brand new at the same time. Its haft was gnarled wood, like the tree and pedestal, but the blade was a kind of dark grey iron, that looked immensely old, but still sharp and rust-free. No doubt it was protected by powerful magicks.

Still, the Moth Priest hadn’t mentioned the knife being protected from potential users, so they had to assume the magicks warded against age and decay.

“Think it’s protected from the uh, uninitiated or something?” Serana echoed her thoughts.

“Only one way to find out,” Roë shrugged, reaching for the knife. What was the worst that could happen, after all? A jolt? A flash of flame? Instant obliteration? As long as destruction wasn’t likely in her own mind, her body allowed her to take risks. She’d found that out as time had passed. It was rotten, because it meant the only way she couldn’t self-terminate was if she was actually trying to.

Her fingers closed around the handle of the knife, and nothing happened. No jolt, no flame, no being turned inside out by a quasi-divine force. Just the cool wood in her hand.

“Roë. Over there.”

She looked where Serana was pointing and saw several branches levitate off the ground on their own, finding each other and turning into a cluster, hovering at chest height, leaves swirling around them. The next moment, the branches snapped together, forming humanoid shapes that moved towards them, with trembling, lurching steps at first, but gaining dexterity and confidence as they moved. They looked vaguely female, with short branches and leaves for hair and no facial features, as if they were trees grown in the shapes of female skeletons, with sharp branches sticking out on their shoulders and heads, forming jagged wooden crowns and pauldrons.

“Spriggans,” Serana told Roë. Ancient tree spirits or some such. Probably guard this place. They’re not known for parleying with defilers.”

“They’re messing with the wrong defilers,” Roë said, setting her jaw, surprised to feel how eager she was at tearing these creatures apart.

“I wouldn’t suggest shifting,” Serana said, holding up a hand and making a flame dance in her palm. “So far it’s only the spriggans, and they’re probably mad from the ages, but this grove knows we’re unnatural abominations. Turn into something even more offensive to nature and the entire grove itself may turn against us.”

“Fine. We’ll just destroy them the traditional way then.”

“It’s just as much fun.”

Serana added deed to word and launched the jet towards the first attacker. The wooden creature shrieked, catching fire almost instantly, flailing and staggering across the grass. Roë lunged forward, her blade sliding in between the head and torso of the creature, finding the spot between the two wooden blocks. It felt like sliding through an actual throat, vertebrae and all. With a snarl, she twisted her shortsword and the creature’s head twisted off with a _pop_. The wooden block rolling along the ground did not stop the thing, however, and it swiped at Roë with an arm tipped with sharp branches and thorns. She was able to bring her arm up in time to block the blow, the branches and thorns tearing into her left triceps.

Her shortsword chopped downwards, but it got stuck in the spriggan’s ‘shoulder’. Again the thing lashed out, and she felt vines whipping themselves around her throat with three hard blows. The vines tightened, and if Roë had still been alive, they would have choked the life right out of her. As it was, they were only a painful, restrictive nuisance, and Roë swiftly cut through them with her sword.

Freed again, she lashed out with a hard forward kick, bowling the wooden, headless marionette over. Then she leapt on top of it, put her boot on the tree spirit’s trunk and grabbed a branch, easily tearing it off. The spriggan’s head, a few metres further, shrieked, but Roë felt no compassion, grabbing another wooden arm and ripping it from the creature.

“Look out, Roë!”

A second tree creature assaulted her from behind, the thorny branches ripping right across her face, tearing it open. The pain was so incredible Roë was unable to see for a moment, and she felt her nose being torn almost clean off, hanging only by a few scraps of chin. Her hands clapped across her face, cold blood dripping between her fingers.

The next moment, the pain in her face felt insignificant as a burst of pure, terrible agony blasted against her right arm and shoulder. She heard the spriggan cry, and another voice joined in the screaming. She only realized afterwards that it was hers.

She was on fire! _She was on fire!_

She heard herself shriek, her body flailing wildly out of her control. All she could do was scream and thrash, terror overcoming her completely. “I’m on fire! You set me on fire!” she could hear herself squeal. “You set me on fire! I’m burning! I’m burning!” The pain was so intense, she could no longer think.

She almost didn’t feel a body slamming into her, knocking her over. She rolled back and forth, wailing in agony, but slowly the pain lessened to almost-bearable levels and she opened her eyes to see Serana on top of her, her cloak over Roë’s arm and shoulder, batting out the flames.

“Sorry, Roë,” Serana wailed. “Sorry!”

“Y… You set me on fire,” Roë heard herself croak, blood spraying from her lips as she spoke. The pain in her arm and shoulder was terrifying, her destroyed face only an afterthought.

“I know. The spell didn’t… end up where it should have. I’m sorry, Roë.”

The pain was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. “Oh, you’re sorry. That’s fine then. Get off me!”

Serana did so, apologizing once again. Roë wondered if it had really been an accident. No, Serana wouldn’t do this to her… would she?

“Here,” Serana said, pushing her thumb into her wrist and opening her vein. “Have some of mine.”

Roë’s agony was greater than her pride, greater than her mistrust, greater than anything else, and she pushed Serana’s arm against her torn lips, feeling her pale flesh against her bare teeth where her lips were simply torn away. The blood ran into her mouth and she drank greedily until Serana tore her arm away.

“Should give you enough to repair most of the damage.”

Indeed, she felt the torn strips of flesh slide back into place over the front of her skull, and even her nose reattached when she held it in the right place.

But the pain in her arm and shoulder didn’t abate much.

“I… can’t heal the burns.”

Serana made a sad face, but Roë didn’t know how real it was. “No they’ll… take time and a lot of blood to heal. Fire isn’t… our best friend.”

Her arm and shoulder throbbed with pain, and when she moved, she felt the charred skin pop open in places. Her entire sleeve was gone, and her breastplate was scorched and blackened. Even some of the hair on the right side of her head was burned. “ _Fuck_ , Serana.”

There was no way she’d done this by accident. Not Serana, who’d had thousands of years to hone her magick. She’d done it on purpose. Must have.

“Roë, don’t look at me like that. It was an accident, I swear.”

“Shut up and carve something in that tree over there,” Roë muttered, getting to her feet in a lot of effort and pain. More burnt skin popped as she stood up. “Get your Scrolls read.”

Serana at least respected Roë’s anger, leaving her alone and picking up the Draw Knife while Roë stood hugging herself and shivering with pain. If Serana wanted to murder her, she had an opportunity now. If she did, Roë hoped she could at least die in her arms. And Roë knew what was about to happen. That fire blast had been no accident.

“Serana…?” Roë asked quietly.

“Mm?”

“It’s… the end of the line for me, isn’t it?”

“What? Oh, come on. I’m not gonna lie to you, they’re bad burns, but we put the fire out in time. You’ll be alright.”

“No… I mean… That fire blast. That was no accident. You don’t need me anymore, do you?”

There was a strange look in Serana’s blazing eyes. As if she was shocked by what Roë had said, as if it was unthinkable. Or it could also be that she was… in a dilemma. Shocked also, yes, but maybe not because she would never do such a thing, but maybe because Roë knew what she was up to.

“Roë. Oh, Roë, Roë…” she said, looking heartbroken. “How could you even think that? Do you think… I hurt you intentionally? That I want to hurt you?”

She stood there, hugging her burned arm and said, “Want to, maybe not, but… have to? I just need to be… dealt with. Gotten out of the way. It’s alright, I know it’s… nothing personal.”

“Oh Roë, is that why you’ve been so difficult these last days? Because think I’m planning to...?”

“I know how things work in this life. I know that feelings… can’t be involved.” For one brief moment, the blood inside her, the Vampire inside her, was silent. And she found herself able to say, “You can, you know. If you want to.”

“Roë, what are you suggesting – ”

“You can... end me. You want to get rid of me, I’m no longer useful. You’ve won.” She was all too aware of how she stood there, holding her arm, her head drooping, in so much pain she couldn’t even lift her arm, or even transform. “I can’t defend myself anymore, so… Now’s the time. I don’t want to play this game any longer. So you… have my permission.”

Serana stood looking at her silently.

“But please… just one thing… Treat me as a friend, not as a disposable asset. I love you, and I don’t deserve to be… discarded. Like a broken toy. Let me die in your arms, you owe me that much.”

In silence, Roë awaited Serana’s answer.

“Roë,” Serana said flatly, her face hard. “You’ve been a good friend, but now you’re showing your true colours. The colours of a _stupid_ damn idiot. An idiot not worth my friendship.”

“What do you…?”

“Roë,” Serana said angrily, “I’m not my father. I always considered you a friend, and I cared about you. I’d never try to get you ‘out of the way’ or ‘get rid of you’.” Her eyes blazing, she added, “And in fact, you even thinking I might is the dirtiest insult you can ever make.”

“Serana, I just don’t know anymore, I just – ”

“No. Shut up, Roë. How can you think such a thing? And then get all dramatic and play the martyr? First you spring this whole love-thing on me, then you act like a teenager because I don’t reciprocate, and now you… you accuse me of planning to murder you?”

“Serana, no, I – ”

“I said _shut up_ ,” Serana said again, seething. Oh what had she done? This anger was genuine, there was no doubt. She was about to lose her only friend, she knew it. There was no way to take back what she’d said, no way to fix this. “You didn’t just ask, you were certain. You already judged me without even asking. I’ve supported you, cared about you, even been understanding after you were acting rotten. But this? _This_?” She shook her head. “No, Roë. We’re going to finish what we started here and return to my father. You can feed on the slaves to heal your injuries, and then – ”

“Serana, no. Don’t,” Roë pleaded, but it was too late.

“… then I’m cutting you loose. Then you and I are done with each other. You can do whatever it is you want to do, but you and I are through.”

“Serana, you can’t do this to me,” Roë begged, falling to her knees. “You’re all I have in this world.”

“Had, Roë,” Serana corrected, cold as ice. “This is… I can’t believe what you’ve accused me of. I don’t need ‘friends’ who accuse me of being a backstabber.” She sighed and shook her head. “After all we’ve been through, Roë. And get up from your knees, your drama is pathetic.”

She couldn’t. All she could do was hang her head, and fold in on herself.

“Wait outside,” Serana simply said. “I’m going to perform this ritual, one way or another, and then we’re going back. We’ll say goodbye as friends, I suppose you’ve earned that much.”

“Serana – ”

“I said wait outside.”

“But – ”

“Stop. Talking.”


	51. Falnas: Trinity Restored

 

**FALNAS**

**Trinity Restored**

**Riften Cemetery**

 

Karliah was back where he’d left her, at the entrance to the mausoleum. She sat on a bench now, looking at the flowers on the graves, her fingers laced together between her knees. When she noticed Falnas approaching, she immediately got up and walked toward him.

“Honestly…” she said to him, “I was worried we’d never see you again.”

He smiled broadly at her. “It was a little tense at first, but she proved reasonable after all.”

“Yes,” she said grimly. “The way she dealt with Maven and her household was nothing if not _reasonable_.”

She had a point. He’d been apprehensive of the Dragonborn at first, then gotten to like her for the boisterous battleaxe she was, but the aftermath of their operation had left a very bad taste in his mouth. He wondered if she was even completely sane. “I think… you just don’t want to get on her bad side,” he said, keeping it diplomatic.

“Who was that other girl with you? The Nord?”

Heh, figured she’d ask about that. It was a more pleasant subject at least. “That was Mruki. One of Maven’s servants. Maven, uh… left her the Orphanage. By proxy.”

“Yes,” Karliah said, looking away. “How benevolent of the woman that just slaughtered her mistress and half her fellow workers.”

“Let’s just put this behind us,” Falnas said, daring to put his arms around her. “The Guild’s out of immediate danger, now we can get back to the more pleasant concern of making money.”

“About that,” Karliah said, not resisting his embrace. Falnas felt his heart beat a little faster. “I sent Vex out to do some high-level pickpocketing. There’s a hoity-toity wedding in Solitude in a few days. No doubt she’ll bring back some valuables.”

“It’s a start,” Falnas nodded. Her hair smelled of lavender soap.

“In the meantime, I have something important to tell you.”

His heart began beating even faster when she looked up at him with her eyes, with their irises of iridescent purple. He was about to kiss her, when she said, “It’s about the Guild,” but her smile was warm and understanding. Falnas didn’t know whether to be encouraged or disappointed.

“Oh. Sure, what is it?”

“Go get Brynjolf and make sure you both pack some food. We’re taking a little trip, but we won’t be gone for long. Don’t tell anyone but Brynjolf, it’s… well, secret.”

“Ooh,” he joked, “cloak and dagger stuff.”

She smiled and said, “I’ll meet you at the entrance to the Flagon, then we’ll take our secret tunnel outside.”

Brynjolf looked so bored one would think he was in the temple of Jyggalag, so he was all too happy to close his ledger and pack something to eat. Together, they met Karliah at the exit of the Flagon, and a few dark tunnels and a ladder later, they were outside the city.

Karliah pointed at a shape sticking out between the trees and the morning fog. “See that old Standing Stone there?”

“Mm. No stars shine on the doomstone.”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s where we’re headed.”

Brynjolf and Falnas followed her, trekking through the grove surrounding the stone. It was only a fifteen minutes’ walk, and from there, Karliah led them deeper into the woods until they found themselves at the foot of a low cliff, only twice as tall as Karliah.

“Nice rock face,” Brynjolf said with a grin. “Any gold to mine here? Because I prefer stealing it, takes less effort.”

With a mysterious smile, Karliah said, “No, Brynjolf. No gold. Something far, far more valuable.”

“Diamonds?”

Also amused, Falnas said to Brynjolf, “Knock it off, you greedy ponce.”

“I’m a thief,” Brynjolf defended himself, acting wounded. “It’s in my blood.”

“Speaking of thieves,” Falnas pointed out, “We were suckers for letting Mercer clean out the vault. I mean, of course he’d steal, he was the leader of the Thieves Guild.”

Brynjolf shook his head. “You haven’t been with us long enough to know all the subtle rules of the Guild, but one of says that you never, ever steal from your fellow guild members, or from the Guild itself. It’s… comparable to blasphemy.”

“Huh,” Falnas said. “Seems a bit illogical to me.”

“It is what it is,” Brynjolf simply said.

“I wish people would stop using that stupid phrase.”

“Come on.” Karliah extended her hand towards the rock face, and to Falnas’ and Brynjolf’s surprise, her hand went in to the wrist. After briefly struggling with his senses, Falnas realized this was the best-woven Illusion magicka he’d ever seen. “No earthly treasures, Brynjolf,” Karliah said. “But I’m taking you to meet someone. And I promise, it’s not just anyone.”

It wouldn’t be. Most Illusion spells didn’t stand up to close scrutiny, and they certainly couldn’t be held in such a state for a long time. Whoever was responsible for this was a spell weaver of inhuman skill and power.

“Alright,” Brynjolf said, the grin wiped off his face. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

“Follow me.”

They passed through the uncannily realistic illusion, stepping into the cave beyond it. Karliah lit a torch, providing some illumination, then led the way.

“There haven’t been people here in years,” she explained. “The last time, I was the junior of the three.”

“With Gallus, right?” Brynjolf asked flatly, not dodging the subject.

“With Gallus. He led us through these caves. When we emerged, we were a trinity. I, Gallus, and Mercer.”

“Then came the betrayal,” Falnas said.

He saw Karliah’s head nod as she walked. “Mercer was jealous. Jealous of something, though we never knew what. Of Gallus’ position as leader. Of the relationship I had with Gallus and not with him. Or maybe he just wanted the Guild for himself. Who can say.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” Brynjolf grunted. “Murdering a fellow Guild member, or blaming it on someone innocent.”

“Gallus’ murder,” Karliah said bluntly. “Definitely. I was alive and could exonerate myself. Gallus never had the chance. Never had any chance of anything anymore.”

Falnas cleared his throat, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere more pleasant. And, he had to admit, to take Karliah’s mind of her lost lover. Somewhat selfishly, perhaps, but life was not about inaction. “So I assume we’re here for the same thing?”

She nodded again. “Never thought we’d need two more people, and I definitely never thought I would be leading them, but yes. It’ll become clear in time. I’d rather not tell you what’s about to happen. I… prefer to let someone else do it for me.”

For a brief moment, Falnas felt himself grow apprehensive. She was acting _very_ mysterious now, and doubt took hold of him, very shortly, but still very much there. After all, they only had a translated journal as proof, and that wasn‘t very reliable since they couldn’t read the original. All the rest had been simply taking Karliah at her word. Surely this wouldn’t all be some elaborate trap…

He felt guilty as soon as he thought it.

The cave widened and they stood in a hallway. The floor continued forward, but where the cave walls had been, was now a deep emptiness. The ledge went on to the middle of the hall, leading to a round stone platform that it split into three more narrow stone bridges, each leading to a smaller stone platform. What in Oblivion was this place?

“I uh… need both of you to stand on one platform each.” Sheepishly, she added, “Sorry, that wasn’t very dramatic. Gallus was better at creating atmosphere.”

“So uh,” Brynjolf asked. “Who did you want us to meet? There’s no one here.”

Falnas had to agree. The room was utterly empty. “You’re not going to transform into a monster, are you?”

“Stand on the platform and you’ll see,” Karliah said, amused at their lack of understanding. She already stood on one of the pedestals.

After exchanging glances, Brynjolf and Falnas stepped over the narrow stone bridges that led to their positions.

“Good,” Karliah said when everyone was ready. “The uh… the someone you’re about to meet is on our side, but, well… I really, strongly suggest for you to be on your very, very best behaviour.”

Brynjolf snorted. “Come on. It’s not like it’s going to be the Emperor, is it?”

Falnas saw the twinkle in Karliah’s eyes all the way from the other side of the room. “Oh no.”

Without another word, Karliah pushed the top of her torch against the stone at her feet, extinguishing it.

The cave was dark and silent. After a few seconds, Brynjolf’s voice rang out, “Is this going to be one of those ‘tap once for yes, twice for no’ things?”

Falnas grinned in the dark as Karliah told him to shut up for once in his life.

More silence and darkness, until pale light began to shine in the centre of the cave, lighting it up in a sort of gaseous, cloudy blue.

“Karliah,” a voice said, sounding female, but clearly not human. Falnas didn’t know who this was, but the voice, its very presence, filled him with awe he’d never felt before. “Finally decided to come crawling back?”

He saw Karliah’s form kneel in the blue light. “For… forgive me, my mistress,” she stammered, clearly surprised by the unfriendly greeting. “I wish to set right what – ”

“Yes, yes,” the voice answered, haughty, aloof and completely full of itself. “It took you long enough. What have you been doing all these years? I must say that despite his betrayal, Mercer has been by far the least inept of this sorry Guild of yours.”

“I don’t – ”

“Meanwhile, my Key is still in the wrong hands, being used by the unworthy. Although, I must admit, I’m considering letting Mercer keep it, since he’s using it for the greatest larceny of all. You know of what I speak.”

“He… he would steal the – ”

“He would.”

“Figures,” Karliah said to no one in particular. “He wants this final victory over Gallus.”

Who in Oblivion did this voice belong to? It wasn’t some hedge wizard, not some clever illusion. _Power_ radiated from the voice, he felt it in his very core. It was smug, arrogant, insufferably so, but Falnas knew, felt, that it had every reason to be.

“If you wish to stop him,” the voice scolded Karliah further, “you will have to show me a bit more competence than you have so far.”

Karliah looked tiny, still kneeling. She clearly hadn’t expected this punitive reprimand. “I… will go to whatever lengths you require of me.”

“Even knowing there’s a good chance your path ends in your death?”

A short silence, then a quiet, “… even then.”

“Very well. I see you brought two associates with you. I do hope they won’t let themselves be embarrassed as easily as you, Karliah. Mercer certainly pulled your pants down these last years.” A short silence, then Falnas knew the voice spoke to Brynjolf and him. “Now then, with the exception of your embarrassing gullibility when it came to Mercer’s scheming, you both seem to have a firm head on your shoulders. Either of you will certainly be better Guild leaders than _Karliah_ here.”

Neither Falnas nor Brynjolf knew how to reply to that.

“The powers I grant will be great, tremendous even, but they will never surpass those I gave to Mercer when he stood where you stand. This power, once given, is never taken away… and neither is the debt my favoured owe me.”

Falnas finally dared to speak. “It would… help if we knew exactly in whose debt we’d be putting ourselves… With all due respect.”

“Really?” the voice said with a short, irritated laugh. “You haven’t told them who they were meeting? You’re going to have me suffer the indignity of introducing _myself_?” A short silence, and then, as if the voice was a parent scolding a naughty child, condescending but affectionate, “ _Karliah_.” The tone betrayed that this entity had been giving Karliah a ribbing more than actually rebuking her.

The voice spoke again to Beynjolf and Falnas. “I am known as the Night Mistress, the Mistress of Shadows, the Unknowable, the Empress of Murk, the Daughter of Twilight, the Lady of Luck. All titles, most of them flattering, but bestowed by your kind. The simplest and most accurate name for me is simply… Nocturnal.”

Falnas’ heart felt like it briefly stopped, and then started again. Nocturnal, _the_ Nocturnal, the Daedric Prince, the unknowable, unfathomable Goddess, patron of thieves, burglars, grave robbers, shadow operatives, and everyone who used secrecy, guile and darkness to achieve their goals. Falnas had never been a Daedra-worshipping man, but by the Tribunal, he was having a conversation with a _Daedra Prince_. That would make any man a believer.

Without a word, Brynjolf fell to one knee, his head bowed.

“Oh please,” the voice laughed. “You’re thieves, not priests. Show some backbone and stand up straight.”

It only took a single second for Brynjolf to comply. Karliah, too, stood, but slowly and disheartened.

“Now that I’ve suffered the opprobrium of making my own introduction, we can move onto matters at hand. Karliah, you bring these two for the initiation, I assume?”

“I do, my Lady.”

“Have you told them the terms and conditions?” the voice asked imperiously, already knowing this wasn’t true. “No, of course not,” Nocturnal made a show of correcting herself. “If you haven’t even shown me the courtesy of introduction… You two, you have heard of the Nightingales, yes?”

It was clear the goddess didn’t need a response to that question. Falnas had heard the name mentioned once or twice, as a sort of ‘secret society’ among the Guild. He’d always laughed it off, assuming it to be some secret-handshake little boys’ club with no real meaning, but now that he was actually speaking to Nocturnal, he realized it must have been much more than that.

“Karliah brought you here to restore the trinity. There are never more than three Nightingales. At the end of this day, there may be four. A situation that must be rectified.”

“We will track down Mercer in your honour, my Lady,” Brynjolf finally said, his voice hoarse and unstable.

“Do. He has taken my Artifact, and I would see it returned. I would have let him chase whatever things his greed drives him to, but for the use of my Key. Mortals thinking they can simply decide to use the Skeleton Key when they see fit… the _affront_.”

The voice took a moment to feel indignant.

“Without the powers of the Nightingales, however, there will be no stopping Mercer. He is almost as comically inept as you, but he wears my shadows and wields my power. If you would have any chance of returning my Key and pleasing your Goddess, you will need to pledge yourselves to me.”

For being so powerful, haughty and bothered to waste time with mortals, Nocturnal sure was taking her time getting to the point.

“Until my Key is returned, the Guild will enjoy no windfalls, and suffer ill fortune at every turn. You’ve already felt my disapproval. The… ‘curse’ on the Guild, as one of you put it?”

Vivec damn it, superstitious Delvin had been right after all.

“Even now, one of your number is feeling the effects. Not to worry,” Nocturnal added with a chuckle, the blue light rippling, “it’ll only cost her a few bumps and bruises.”

“What would you require from us in return for the Nightingales’ power, my Lady?” Falnas asked, slowly getting over the baffling realization that he was talking to a _Daedra Prince_.

“In exchange for the great powers of the Nightingale,” the voice said, swollen with pride, “I demand nothing but eternal servitude. In this life… and the next.”

Silence fell as the words sank in.

“Y… you mean…?” Brynjolf stammered hoarsely.

“Yes,” the voice said, sounding bored. “You receive powers you will not believe, and in return, I will be taking your soul. To put it dramatically and in the most clichéd manner possible.”

“What does that… mean specifically?” Falnas asked. He had no idea what happened to a soul if it was given to a Daedra Prince once its owner died.

“You wish me to divulge the secrets of the afterlife of mortals? How quaint.”

Oh dear, the voice sounded insulted. That had been a bad move.

“I will tell you this, however,” Nocturnal said, “There will be no Sovngarde for you, and no… whatever it is, for you. You will spend the hereafter in my servitude, but I assure you, I treat my servants well. And really… what better way to spend eternity with the darkest Lady, most beautiful of all the Daedra Princes?” And with sharp, completely honest bitterness, she added, “I’m sure Azura would disagree, but who cares about that exhibitionist bitch?”

None of the three thieves dared to reply.

“Now then,” Nocturnal asked, her voice back to its snooty, arrogant poise. “Don’t insult me by asking time to think about my generosity. Accept the gifts I offer, or be gone from my dark-lit visage.”

In the corner of his eye, Falnas saw Brynjolf step forward, his fist on his heart. “I am… ready to receive your blessing, my Lady.”

“I had expected nothing less,” Nocturnal smirked. “The chances of you getting into Sovngarde are, to say the least, not very favourable anyway.”

Falnas needed a moment to decide though. He’d never thought about what would happen in the next life, but spending it as a lap dog to this conceited, uppity black widow was… not very appealing. It felt like trading one pesky Maven for an even more demanding, immortal one, no matter how smoking hot she was reputed to be. Then again, he had no real family, no one for his spirit to watch over when he was gone. The only one he could see himself being with for the rest of his life was Karliah… and she was already a Nightingale, so he knew where she would go at the end.

Plus, it meant he could blaspheme about the Tribunal all he wanted without worrying about any spankings in the afterlife. Vivec’s hairy, floppy cock-snatch, faint heart never won fair Karliah. He stepped forward and said, “I too accept your gift, my Lady.”

A chuckle. “Yes, figured you would. For you, the eternity in my servitude will be even more bearable. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to let you out of each others’ sights.”

Karliah raised her head and her eyes quickly went to him and back again.

“Eyes closed, little mortals.”

They did as they were told, and Falnas could feel the vapours slowly spiralling around his body.

“Make sure not to open them until I say so.”

It would be best not to risk sneaking a peek, even though Falnas was, at the least, quite apprehensive about what was happening. It was as if countless immaterial fingers caressed him, first his lower legs, then upward, and everywhere they passed, they left some kind of material that hugged his body tightly, as if made exactly to measure and applied like velvet fingerpaint. He felt his entire body being wrapped in the fabric, or leather, or whatever it was, then belts were tightened, and finally the fingers brushed over the skin of his face, and his breath passed through a kind of permeable mask. Lastly, the fingers caressed his hair, and that too ended up wrapped in the strange material.

With a longing sigh, the fingers retreated.

“Open your eyes and feast them on the first of my great gifts.”

Falnas did as he was told and looked down at himself. He was wearing perfectly-fitted leathers, or what looked like leathers, so jet black they seemed to absorb the light, intricately decorated with black-silver trim. The leather overlapped in long scales to provide the most protection it could while still remaining maximally mobile, and on the chest was the emblem of a raven, its wings spread upward towards a circle divided in four. His face was masked, and a hood lay over his head.

The material didn’t feel like leather, more like a second skin. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just whipped up in some tanner’s shop.

Brynjolf was dressed the same, looking at his arms, turning them over to study the palms of the gloves. At his belt hung a sheath with a handle sticking out, and Falnas realized he had one too, a long dagger with an ebony hilt. Even bringing his hand near it made his skin prickle with its power.

“You are now Nightingales,” the blue light announced, its voice swelling with pride. “Small side effects include enhanced vision in darkness, muffled steps, an inflated ego, and the feeling that something inside you is…” A chuckle. “Missing.”

She was right. Something inside him was gone. It wasn’t a feeling, not a physical thing, not any kind of warmth, just… something. Something he hadn’t known was there until it was gone. Very briefly, a profound sense of loss came over him, but the next moment, it was gone and he was back to marvelling at the wonders of this armour.

“Do not dare to return until Mercer Frey lies dead and you have my Key. Karliah, despite your… _lacking_ servitude thus far, I have kept your vestments safe. You know where to find them. You _will_ wear them on this final task I send the three of you on. Make sure Mercer knows he does not defy Nocturnal without retribution. Being confronted by a new trinity of Nightingales will make sure he realizes his part in this story is at an end, and that his Mistress calls to him. I await the coming of his soul with great interest.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Go. No one provokes me with impunity.”


	52. Keljarn and Siari: Threads Unravelled

**KELJARN AND SIARI**

**Threads Unravelled**

 

* * *

 

**KELJARN**

 

She’d strike at the wedding, if she ever would. Probably during a moment where the bride or groom was unguarded. Because there was no doubt they were the targets. The wedding was important for the peace process between Stormcloaks and the Empire, and disrupting it would serve a lot of political agendas.

But where would she do the deed? The changing rooms, perhaps? It was what he would do if he were an assassin. It was quiet, secluded, and it’d take a long time to find a body, long enough for an assassin to be far away.

His best bet would be to keep his eyes open, because infiltrating the Temple would be far too risky.

The wedding wasn’t by invitation, it seemed, everyone was invited and welcome. Good news because that meant he could just walk on in, but bad news because that meant there would be a lot of people there, and the more people, the harder it would be to spot that little slag.

He saw the people filing in through the gates of the Temple of the Divines, and simply joined in the queue. After all, he wasn’t a dirty assassin trying to sneak in, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Letting his eyes float among the crowd, he scanned the tops of the heads, hoping to make something out as he did.

“Wait… I know you!”

The guard he’d just passed stood looking ahead in the crowd.

“You. Stop right there.”

He’d seen something. Keljarn tried to follow his gaze to see who it was he was giving the orders to, but no one stopped or looked back.

“I said _stop_!” The guardsman stomped through the crowd, bumping people out of the way, and disappearing in the throng. Keljarn hoped it was the assassin he’d spotted, but the mass of people around him prevented him from getting any closer.

If it was her, though, he might not get the chance to do her in himself, so did he really hope for it? Maybe not entirely.

“Thieves Guild scum aren’t welcome here,” he heard the guardsman growl before he saw him coming back, dragging a blonde woman dressed in leathers out with him. He didn’t recognize the sharp face right away, but the leathers were unmistakable. After apologizing to the people he’d bumped into, the soldier dumped the thief outside the gates without much ceremony, giving her a kick to the backside for good measure and making sure her face was planted firmly on the cobble-stones. The last he saw of the woman was her getting to her hands and knees, holding her bleeding face.

Risks of the trade.

But no assassin so far. The problem with this one was that she was so tiny and average she could blend in just about anywhere. And she wouldn’t be wearing her Brotherhood outfit, that much was certain. Looking for missing fingers or mutes would be no good, so all he could hope for was to spot her somewhere in the crowd. He had one advantage though: he wasn’t there to prevent an assassination, just to capture its perpetrator. So he could bide his time and wait for her to strike.

A servant offered him a slice of apple coated in caramel sugar. Wasn’t that nice of him. In fact, it was a nice day all around. Beautiful sun, flowers everywhere, pretty bridesmaids smiling. Wreaths were being hung above the balcony, and even the guards had flowers tied around the shafts of their spears.

He spied around, hoping to see the rotten wench, but didn’t see her anywhere, even when the stately music began playing and the bride and groom strode to the balcony and joined hands. Nervously, Keljarn looked around at the crowd surrounding him, occasionally stopping to get a better look at one of the young ladies, but not seeing her anywhere.

“My dearest family, friends, and all people gathered here today,” the bride addressed the crowd, holding out her hands. “Today’s union is more than the mere wedding of two beloved.”

Where was she, where the fuck was she?

“It also signifies a union. A union between Skyrim and Cyrodiil.”

Keljarn scanned the crowd furiously, then his eye led him to the battlements, above the bride and groom.

Barely visible above the battlements was a bridesmaid with a brown fringe and ponytail. She held a bow, with the arrow nocked, the three remaining fingers of her left hand wrapped around the wood.

“A union between Stormcloak and – ”

“Assassin!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pointing up at the battlements. The girl let fly regardless, her arrow zipping through the air and striking the bride in the chest. The guards were slow to react, but they did eventually, sending an uncoordinated couple of arrows her way, but she ducked out of their paths, the projectiles striking the stones behind her.

The crowd surged around him, and panicked people began to scream and crowd for the exit.

She was gone, concealed behind the battlements. A few metres further, she popped up again, and before the guards could draw a bead on her, she set her back against one of the gargoyle statues and… did _something_ to it, diving back into cover before the arrows found her, the guards unable to aim properly with the people pushing and crowding around them.

Meanwhile, guards were rushing to the staircases set in the walls surrounding the Temple courtyard, but they’d never make it. Instead of trying to rush upstairs with them, Keljarn simply watched as he kept his footing between the surging crowd, making sure he knew where she went.

She came up again, before the guards could nock another arrow and release, and with her feet, pushed against the gargoyle statue again.

Keljarn’s mouth fell open as the statue, with a loud cracking sound, broke free from its base and toppled, falling down to the balcony below. He was too late to avert his gaze when the massive granite statue struck the edifice, crushing the bride and groom on it, blood, guts and bone exploding between the statue and the balcony, before the whole thing crashed down, the couple’s splattered bodies a rain of red between the falling stone. The few unfortunates who had lingered near the balcony were beaten down by rubble and falling body parts.

“I have you now,” the soldier right next to Keljarn muttered, his arrow aimed squarely at the silky white bridesmaid’s dress the assassin wore. But before he could release, a billowing cloud of smoke appeared on the battlement, obscuring all vision of the assassin. Nine damnit!

The soldier’s arrow penetrated the smoke, but with all the panicked screaming from the crowd, Keljarn couldn’t hear if it had hit its target.

The soldiers appeared on the battlement now, but as they did, Keljarn could just barely make out a shape leaping off the battlements on the far side, away from the Temple. That had been her, he was certain of it.

He had to get to the other side of the Temple, and that would mean going around. And _that_ meant getting out through the gates. Another smoke bomb exploded on the gallery, making sure the guards had no chance to hit their marks.

He pushed, shoved and even kicked himself through the crowd, but even with his strength and mass, he had an incredibly tough time getting through, his muscles hurting from the exertion. A young bridesmaid had fallen and was being trampled, and Keljarn didn’t even realize he’d stepped on her face until it was too late, her jaw breaking with a muffled _pop_ under his boot. He reached for her dress, no longer white but red with blood and brown with dirt, but the crowd washed him away before he could pull the girl to her feet, his hands snatching only air as the throng carried him out and absorbed the bridesmaid, leaving her to die with all her bones broken beneath countless feet, like so many others.

Anyone who went down in a throng as panicked as this one wasn’t getting back up. Keljarn couldn’t concentrate on moving as quickly as possible anymore, and with the crowd’s waves gaining in strength as all the people tried to push through the gates, he had to devote all his strength to simply staying on his feet, as elbows and knees struck him from all sides. A middle-aged woman lost her balance and went down, but this time Keljarn managed to snatch her wrist and pull her back up before the mass of people made him lose his grip, the woman never getting to see who had saved her. One guardsman tried to wade in and rescue a fallen boy, but the tide of people simply carried him back out through the gate. A few moments later, Keljarn, too, was deposited outside as the force that held the crowd together failed without the walls around it, and people lost their footing, scampering away on their hands and feet to make sure they weren’t trampled by the masses still behind them.

More dead people because of the little bitch.

He had no time to mourn, however, he had to stay on her trail. If he lost her this time, there would be no little nudge from Hircine. He had a feeling his guardian had interfered more than he should have already. He got to his feet, ignoring his tired and aching muscles, and ran for the back of the Temple. The damn thing was built against the city walls, so that meant actually exiting the city first. The guard hadn’t gotten wise to her escape yet, communication impossible between the soldiers in the courtyard and those in the city.

He ran to the nearest gates, against the few citizens who hadn’t attended the wedding but now came to investigate the bedlam. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on over there?” one of the gate guards asked him as he ran past, and he only had time to say, “Wedding got bloody,” before dashing through the gates and running along the walls, to the back of the temple.

He knew he shouldn’t hope to find her with both her legs broken from the jump, alone and defenceless, but he did anyway.

His heart sank to see she was gone. Smoke still lingered here and there, narrow wisps curling through the grass, but the bitch herself was no longer there, and he knew he was in the right place: the ground here was strewn with leaves and broken branches, and on the place she’d landed, the earth was gouged and disrupted.

But a smell still lingered, not of the little rat herself, but something else. Someone else. The smell of scales and swamp water. An Argonian had been here too, and the tracks in the earth told him that was indeed the case, narrow boot prints first opposite the prints of the slippers she’d worn, and then side by side. They’d left together. It would simply be a case of following those. It was the only lead he had.

He’d have to run some more to catch up to them, and he’d have to get in visual range before their path led them to a surface where their tracks would no longer be visible, but he couldn’t move too quickly and attract attention either.

Argonians had a keen sense of smell, like he did, but he had the disadvantage of not being able to stay downwind, instead being resigned to follow from a considerable distance, constantly being aware to keep the balance between not losing them and not being spotted. Luckily, he got them in sight just before they got to the road, where their tracks would have been irrevocably mixed with countless others. A girl with a ponytail and a fringe, dressed in a dirty and torn bridesmaid’s dress and an Argonian wearing the leathers he’d come to expect from these filthy backstabbers. They were clever, following the road for a short distance before veering off it and into the forest, but Keljarn figured that was more due to their subconscious reliance on training rather than their suspicions of being followed, since they looked unaware of anyone tailing them. So much the worse for them.

He had half a mind to shift then and there and simply rush them, taking the little bitch in his maw and shaking her back and forth until her frail little body ripped in half, but he knew that if he revealed himself too early or missed his opportunity, he’d ruin it. No, he’d follow them from a distance, as far as possible, sticking to tracks when he could and keeping them in visual range when he had to, until they led him to their wretched hiding place.

Somewhere during the tailing, the little rat had changed into her Brotherhood leather again, foolishly leaving her torn dress poorly hidden under a stone. Keljarn didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and with his knife, cut a sleeve off the dress, making sure he had some of the fabric of the chest and back as well. Pressing it against his nose, he closed his eyes and inhaled, imprinting the sour smell of her sweat deeply into his memory.

On he followed, sometimes closely, sometimes from afar, being led south to Falkreath… where he lost them.

He didn’t know what had happened, but he must have dozed off, squinting at them with the evening sun in his eyes, and they’d gotten a lead on him. It had taken him over an hour to find their tracks again, and by then they’d be long gone. Even worse, they’d crossed a river and, probably as their training had taught them, followed it for a distance before continuing south into the forest.

After another hour of trying to recapture their tracks, he realized it was pointless. _Fuck_ , he thought, whipping his fists against his thighs in frustration. He was losing time, but had no way to pick up the trail.

It turned morning, with Keljarn just proceeding south, trying against better judgment to simply follow his gut and hope he’d get lucky. The bluffs that marked the southern edge of Skyrim were already visible on the horizon, and he knew that if he reached those without finding anything, he could definitively let go of the hope of finding anything anymore.

He sat down, pulling two wild carrots from the ground, wiping them on the grass and listening to them crunch between his teeth, his eyes closed in despair, dreading the moment he had to admit to himself that he would never be able to avenge his friends.

The sound of hooves made him open his eyes, and there, lit by the morning sun, her form glorious in its hideousness, came a girl storming by beyond the treeline, dressed in dark leathers, her brown ponytail bobbing as the jet-black horse that carried her, galloped off down the road. He watched from behind a tree as she briefly paused at the road sign, then kicked the horse in the flanks, sending it speeding down the road.

 _MARKARTH_ , the road sign read. That was where she was headed. He muttered a thanks to Hircine and set off, ignoring the hunger, the fatigue, the hurting muscles. He’d have to move fast if he wanted to catch up to her in time.

Stealing a horse had helped, but even then, even with the animal galloping as hard as it could, Keljarn didn’t catch up to her. He was certain he was going the right way, though, the tracks in the ground clear as day: the hooves unshod and making deep pits in the earth, spaced farther apart than those of a normal horse. He didn’t know what kind of Daedra-steed this was, but no one bred horses like these without some supernatural assistance.

The horse all but collapsed under him just outside of Markarth, and Keljarn thanked it by resisting the desire for fresh, bloody horse meat and just letting it recover where he’d left it. Good chance it’d actually find the way back on its own.

It was Ferdas morning when he arrived, and he wasted no time, despite his gnawing lack of sleep, to start searching. The only brief pause he permitted himself was to commit the minor crime of petty larceny by stealing a slab of dried meat from the stall of a merchant who wasn’t paying attention to his wares.

Gnawing the meat, he roamed the city, looking for a brown fringe and ponytail. Given her last assassination, Keljarn suspected she was here to assassinate an equally high-profile target, so he decided to start with the Jarl.

“Hold it,” the guard at the gate to Understone Keep said curtly. “No one in or out.”

He blinked. “What’s going on, soldier?”

“There’s been a murder.”

Damn it, he was too late! “Wh… who?”

“One of us, guardswoman. Stabbed through the head.” The soldier was more shaken than he let on. “Just found her, but she’d been dead for a few hours. Her… name was Lanaris.”

A guardswoman? That couldn’t have been the little bitch’s target. No, this was something else. Either the guard had gotten in the way, or… “Did she… was your fellow guardswoman still wearing her uniform when you… found her?”

Keljarn could all but hear the guard’s eyes narrow behind the visor of his helmet. “No. Why?”

Damn, she was going after the Jarl! “Soldier, the person who murdered her is using her uniform as a disguise.”

“You think we didn’t realize that?” the guardsman snapped. “That’s why all female guards have been pulled from duty and gathered for inspection right now. Now be on your way.”

“You don’t understand, I know the murderer. She’s probably still in there! The Jarl is in danger, you have to – ”

Surprised screams came from the other side of the town, from the direction of the Temple of Dibella, along with the noise of wood cracking and breaking. Then, right after, the screams became panicked, those of onlookers joining in.

He knew it was her. She’d struck again.

Abruptly turning from the guard, he ran toward the source of the noise, and saw one of the wooden bridges, hanging lopsided into the water, three bodies lying a few metres lower, in the shallow brook at the end of the waterfall. Only one still moved, the others lay still. They were dressed in decorated Imperial armour, as was the fourth man, who clambered down the rocks to help his fellows. Red ran into the water as it passed the bodies.

These had been dignitaries, important Imperial personnel. These had been her targets, not the damn Jarl!

The citizens who’d come to investigate the commotion all converged on the wounded and dead Imperial soldiers in the water, with no one observing the bridge and how it had so mysteriously collapsed. Keljarn wasn’t interested in the Imperials, he was much more interested in the orchestrator of this sudden accident. He stood and waited, partially concealed, for the assassin to appear. It was time to show the hunter she was now the one being hunted.

Even though he already knew he’d see her, his heart did briefly stop when a small, lithe shape appeared from under the bridge and hoisted herself up, casting a brief glance downwards, before leaving the scene of the murder. Keljarn watched her go, and followed until she seemed satisfied she was in the clear, arching her back with her hands in her sides.

And then, as if she knew he was there, her head turned immediately into his direction. She’d made him.

“I knew you had something to do with that bridge mysteriously collapsing,” he said as he revealed himself, walking up to her. He’d dealt with her before, and she was no threat unless he offered her his back to stab.

The girl whirled around, her jaw going slack and her face turning pale in fright. Good. Let her know what’s about to happen to her.

The moment had finally come. “Your killing ends here.”

The girl briefly shot a glance in all directions. Good, go ahead and run. There was no way she’d be able to evade him, and the longer he gave chase, the more terrified she’d be. She would die tired and afraid.

She gave him what he wanted to, and started running, shooting off down the street to the right. Keljarn gave chase, sprinting after her.

She ran as fast as she could, but Keljarn kept up with her, the both of them dashing down the street and for the city gates. A guard shouted at them to stop, but they ignored him, concentrated solely on the chase, Keljarn’s eyes fixed on the bobbing brown ponytail. The girl ran fast, but unless she still had some hidden reserves she could draw on, Keljarn would catch her sooner or later.

Clearing the city gates, the little bitch ran on, out into the plains, then briefly stopped, whipping her head to either side, making a whistle, and after a brief wait, took off again, running cross-country, through the tall grass and mountain flowers, Keljarn barrelling after her, his breath burning in his throat. Once they were well clear of the city, he’d shift and, with his lupine strength, catch her and tear her limb from limb. She’d whistled for something, and he bet it was her Daedra-horse, but the creature had never showed.

The city was now far enough behind them, and she was gaining on him, but only just a little. He’d make up for it easily after shifting. Calling for the favour of Hircine, he prepared himself for the agony of changing shapes, but nothing happened.

What in Oblivion was going on? Had he displeased his benefactor? No, that couldn’t have been it, he’d hunted her and would catch her certainly enough. As he ran, his muscles burning, he realized the bitch hadn’t jumped on her unholy mount or used any of her armour’s powers to evade him. He knew for a fact that she could jump considerable distances with it, but not now.

Perhaps she couldn’t either. For the same reason her ghost horse hadn’t appeared. Whatever the case, it wasn’t worth devoting energy to finding out why. He’d have to catch her the old-fashioned way, and catch her he would.

The girl ran about a hundred metres ahead of him, and he pushed himself to run even faster, ignoring the burning muscles and the searing stitch in his side. They’d been running at top speed for a few minutes now, both of them, and he knew she felt the fatigue as well, both of them no longer able to run as fast as they had been in the beginning. She was his, he would run until he fell over dead, but he would seize her and feel his axe chop into her skull, watch her twitch and spasm, held up by the blade embedded in her brain, the life slowly draining from her eyes.

The bitch crested a hill, and then she was suddenly gone. When he made it to the top, he saw nothing but plains, and a small village in the distance. The girl was gone. What in Oblivion…?

Keljarn stopped, and whipped his head around, looking for any hiding places she might have scurried into. And there it was, a small hole in the ground, overgrown with weeds, but the plants were broken and disturbed.

Without thinking, Keljarn lowered himself into the hole and continued the pursuit.

 

* * *

 

**SIARI**

Everything burned, and tears of fear and despair were streaking down her face. This crazy bastard wasn’t letting up. She didn’t know how long she could still run, but she had to, she had to or this man would catch her and do terrible things to her. She ran up the hill, feeling her breath come in wheezing gasps and her muscles cramping. She’d gained on him for a bit, but that didn’t matter if she collapsed here, and she felt like she would, any second now.

She blindly ran, going anywhere she could, up a hill, hoping to magically bump into a guard patrol there. But there was only more grass, more clouds, and a small village in the distance.

And there it was, just to her side, something that just might save her. She skidded to a halt, changed direction, and threw herself feet-first into the goblin cave she almost hadn’t seen.

She slid down for a metre or so, and landed on the bottom, in a low cave filled with the stink of goblin excrement. Bent over, she kept moving as fast as her tortured body would allow, making her way through the cave and trying not to hit her head in the gloom.

The cave widened into a room where the goblins made their homes. The disgusting creatures slept during the day, so if she stayed quiet, she’d get past them, no problem. It was only four tents and a totem in the middle. On the far side of the room was a ledge about as high as she was, and that probably led to the outside. It had to.

Quietly, she crept between the tents, tiptoeing past the totem. Just as she thought she was in the clear, she heard, far off, the sound of a man sliding down the hole, his feet slapping down on the cave floor. Then she heard the scrapes of his boots as he, too, proceeded down the cave.

 _No, no, no_!

Despair flared up inside her again, but she still had the coherence to stop and think. Her eyes fell on the totem. The totem, that was it. The goblins might just save her life.

She set her hands against the totem, put her weight against it, and pushed, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. A few lunges and the totem rocked, and with one more push, the thing toppled, its base of rotted wood cracking and snapping as it went. It hit the ground with a hard _bonk_ as Siari pulled herself up to the ledge, risking a quick look back to see the goblins emerge, sleep-drunk, from their tents, snarling and snapping when they saw their fallen totem… just in time for the crazy Nord to emerge into their den.

No time to waste. She didn’t wait for the outcome of the battle that was about to take place, and ran.

 

* * *

 

**KELJARN**

She probably thought she’d outwitted him by jumping down into the goblin cave, but she’d be sorely disappointed. Keljarn went through the cave as quickly as he could, which wasn’t easy when the ceiling was half his height.

He heard the sound of wood breaking and then a loud bang as something heavy came down, and emerged into a wider cave. There she was, standing on a ledge, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and the rest of her face pale with fear.

But below her were four goblin tents and a toppled totem, with ten or so of the disgusting creatures emerging from their tents, holding their rusty, jagged shortswords. When he looked up again, the bitch was gone and the goblins advanced on him with murder in their eyes, several females hanging back and clutching their spawn.

Sneaky little whore.

He raised his axe, furious about the delay.

The goblins came at him, but even between the ten of them, they were no match for him. His axe made deadly circles in the air, chopping through the goblins’ bodies, bisecting them or disembowelling the stinking critters, every swing reducing several of them to blood and guts. Two more swings and the females and their putrid young lay dead too, the little bitch condemning them all to death simply to serve as an obstacle while she made her escape.

It hadn’t delayed him for long. Leaving the massacred goblins behind, he too climbed up the ledge and continued his pursuit. He couldn’t see her, but even without his wolf form, his senses picked up on her easily enough. He smelled the sourness of her sweat, the tanned leather, the blood on her skin, drawn by the thorns she’d climbed through, the acrid salve on the stump of her finger, the salt of her tears of despair, and underneath all that even the rank, nauseating stink of her gash.

She’d made some headway, and the cave turned out to be a complex system of splits, ledges and drops, but the smells didn’t lie, and he knew exactly which path to take.

 

* * *

 

  **SIARI**

The shrieks and cries of the goblins faded as she ran, hoisting herself up or lowering herself off the plateaus and heights, chafing her fingers and ignoring the throbbing in her left hand. He had very little chance to stay on her, because she’d had to choose between two or three paths at times, and it would be an extreme coincidence if he’d chosen the same one every time.

She permitted herself to stop for a breather, doubled over with her hands in her sides, the air burning in her throat and her lungs crying in pain. Her knees felt like they’d just buckle out underneath her.

She sharply inhaled when she heard the sounds of footfalls, coming in the distance. It was amplified by the acoustics of the cave, so they were probably still far away, but he was still following! Letting out a short, pained groan of despair, she took off again, forcing her tortured body to endure more agony, but it had no choice. It had to suffer if it wanted to live.

There was no way to hear if the footfalls were coming closer over the sound of her own boots slapping on the stones, but she couldn’t take the chance. Grunting in pain and exertion, she climbed the wall in front of her, finding enough foot- and handholds, thankfully, and made it to the next section of the cave, and from there, she could see daylight.

Enduring the slope, she dragged herself through the last of the tunnel and emerged in the daylight, back on the plains she’d escaped by throwing herself in the hole. There was a village, not too far, and she ran for it, as fast as her screaming bones would allow. She risked a brief glance behind her and saw the Nord emerge from the cave, a hundred metres behind her. How was this still possible?

She made for the village, stumbling a few times due to her failing muscles, her breath wheezing in her throat, and just as she came close to the houses, a massive shadow passed over her, and her mouth fell open as she saw the huge form of a flying beast pass overhead, making a sharp turn in the air and then descending on the village. A dragon? A _fucking_ dragon?!

But then she realized she had no choice. If she kept running, she was dead. This beast would either mean her end or save her life.

 

* * *

 

  **KELJARN**

How long could this little bitch run? He’d followed her all the way through the caves, emerged back on the plains, and now she was still going, making for a village some ways off. She stumbled here and there, and she clearly wasn’t going to last much longer, but by the Nine, she was really determined to run until she dropped dead. Which was actually fine by him. Not ideal, but acceptable. Most important thing was that she’d knew exactly why she was going to die.

He was buffeted by a powerful wind, seeming to come from above him. When he looked up, he realized why. This little shitsplat town was about to be attacked by a dragon! The damn beasts had been showing up pretty regularly lately, so the rumour went, but this was the first time he actually saw one. Damn, the thing was probably about twenty metres long from head to tail.

And the bitch ran straight for its target. Probably hoping to lose him in the chaos. Already he saw the people from the village run to their houses, to get their weapons or simply to hide. As if anyone could hide from a giant, flying, fire-breathing monster.

He pushed himself on, summoning up the last strength he had in him, hoping to catch up to her before she made it to the houses, where she could hide and try to shake him. She was running through a small grove now, and he was hot on her heels. Growling in pain and exertion, he ran so fast he thought his legs would come off, but he’d get her, he was going to get her! Only a few metres now, he could already hear her desperate breathing. Almost, almost!

He heard himself let out a cry of pain when another shape crashed into him, so hard it knocked the wind from his lungs and sent him crashing to the ground. He made a clumsy tumble and scrambled to his feet again, as did the person who’d run into him.

It was a blonde woman dressed in bone armour. “Get out of the way, you jackass!” she shouted at him before taking off, running straight for the dragon, who was passing over the village, coming about for his attack.

“ _Fuck_!” he snarled, before he too resumed his sprint, heading after the little bitch who’d now almost made it to the first buildings. Out of the house she was running for, came a man and a woman, their armour hastily thrown on and their quivers held in their hands.

They never stood a chance. The dragon let a searing cone of fire stream forth from its maw, setting the woman ablaze instantly, turning her into a shrieking, flailing pillar of flame while the male, half on fire, got snatched up in the beast’s mouth. Keljarn winced when he could hear bones break as the dragon’s teeth closed on each other.

The dragon gained altitude again, and passed overhead to attack the village at another angle.

Keljarn’s eyes weren’t on the dragon for long. All he cared about was catching the murderous rat. He watched her stumble again, going to the ground, before throwing herself through the door of the house the late couple had lived in, seeking refuge in there even as the flames from the dragon’s breath began to eat away at it, the ridge and one of the hips of the roof burning, the flames spreading at a steady pace.

He reached the house now, too, and to be honest with himself, he wasn’t sad that the running was at an end. If there wasn’t a back door to this house, the rat had just walked into the trap on its own.

He shouldered the door open, just in time to see the sneaky bitch run into a side room, smacking the door closed and turning the key. This one looked too heavy to kick in. Taking out his axe, he stomped towards the door, putting his ear against it. What he heard made him grin. She was trying to get out through the window, but the muntins were probably too narrow for her to fit through, and now she was banging something heavy into them. The sound was clearly metal on metal, and that meant she’d never get through in time.

Taking his axe in both hands, he swung it in a high arc and made it come down on the wood of the door, the metal biting into it with a loud crash. He could hear her yelp in fearful surprise when the axe struck, and it only gave him strength. Her time was up.

The heat inside the house was rising, the fire slowly but steadily devouring the place. He swung again, and this time his axe went through, taking a piece of wood out with it, splinters flying. Another swing, and even more of the wood went.

He could barely fit his face through, but he still couldn’t resist the temptation. Seeing her back against the counter, her face terrified. He looked through, his cheeks against the splintered wood, grinning with glee, and growled, “Here’s – ”

_blang!_

He managed to pull his head away in time to avoid the thrown frying pan banging against the door where his face had been only instants ago. God damn bitch.

He stuck his hand through the opening he’d made, but immediately when he did so, a sharp pain blasted up from his wrist, accompanied by the shock the thrown kitchen knife made when it hit the wood.

“Argh! Fuck!” he snarled, pulling his hand back, ignoring the blood running from the shallow cut in his wrist. He’d just have to batter the whole door down, then. He’d have to hurry. The house was becoming dangerously hot. It was burning up fast.

He swung again, taking care to stay out of the trajectory of any thrown kitchen implements, and his axe widened the hole in the door.

He was so close. Just a few more swings and he’d be able to kick what was left of the door down. A few kitchen knives wouldn’t be enough to stop him.

His axe went up again, ready to further destroy the only thing which stood between him and her. Soon, she’d be dead. He savoured the anticipation even as sweat ran down his back from the heat. Her corpse would char in the flames that were devouring this house.

Just a few more swings. Come to me, bitch.

But what he heard made him freeze.

They weren’t alone in this house. The deceased occupants hadn’t been the only ones, and now the last of them let itself be heard.

The baby upstairs wailed, all alone in its crib, unprotected as the fire ate its way towards it.

No, no, _no_!

They both stood still, he could see her through the hole in the door, backed against the counter, her terrified face wondering what he’d do now.

The baby wailed again.

Shit, shit, _shit!_ Let her go, and lose her forever but save the child? Or make a stone out of his heart and leave the child, but get revenge and justice for Kodlak, Ria and Njada, and all the other people who were dead because of her?

The seconds felt like minutes, and the girl just stood watching, not moving, her eyes telling him she knew he had her fate in his hands.

He had to choose. Had to choose now. If he waited too long, they would all burn here.

Justice or innocence? Avenge the dead or save the living? What to do, what to do? He heard himself let out a stifled scream of indecision. Why this? Why now?

Snarling “ _Fuck!_ ” in pure frustration and fury, he banged his fist against the door jamb and ran upstairs, into the smoke and flames.

 

* * *

**SIARI**

Thank Sithis, he was going for it! She heard him roar in frustration, heard his fist hit the wall, and then boots ran upstairs. Maybe it was a trick to make her come out, but she’d have to risk it, and she’d have to risk it now. Turning the key in the lock, she dashed for the front door, crashing through it and almost collapsing outside the house, whistling for Shadowmere, the steed, as it always was, suddenly just there.

Her eyes fell on the fallen bow previously owned by the dead guards. The quiver lay beside it, a few arrows spilled onto the dirt.

Quickly looking around, she saw the dragon lying on its back, a blonde-haired warrior standing on top of its belly, her sword dripping black with blood.

She took the bow, picked up an arrow and pulled the bowstring taut, waiting for him to come out. If she didn’t kill him now, he’d never stop coming after her.

When he came out, she’d shoot him in the heart. Watch him fall to his knees, and then topple over dead. Or perhaps he was already burning alive in there.

Something made her give pause, a question she’d never thought she’d ask herself: did this man deserve what she was about to give to him? He’d given up on chasing her and was risking his life to save a child, knowing he’d never find her again. Did she really want to murder him in cold blood? And why was she even asking herself this question? A mess of conflicting emotions began to churn inside her. She had to get rid of him. It was the practical thing to do. It was the satisfying thing to do. Nothing would change for her if she killed him, apart from the satisfaction of repaying him for the things he’d done to her. So why was she hesitating? Why was she asking the most forbidden question of all, asking herself if he deserved it? She was a Dark Brotherhood member. And Dark Brotherhood members were _never_ so weak as to ask themselves if their target ‘deserved it’.

He had to die, it was clear and simple. Perhaps he’d survive the inferno, and perhaps he’d give up on chasing her, but even if he didn’t, he’d never find her again. But he’d cut off her finger, made her piss herself in front of everyone. He’d tried to murder her several times. So he had to die. It would be easy. Just motion for him to put the child down, and shoot the arrow in his heart.

But then why was it so hard? Why did she doubt? Why did ‘deserve’ suddenly have something to do with it?

She couldn’t stop herself from finally asking herself the question, and she couldn’t stop herself from actually answering it.

Briefly closing her eyes, she laid the bow on the ground and leapt onto Shadowmere, taking them out of each other’s lives forever. 


	53. Roë: Boiling Point

  **ROË**

**Boiling Point**

**Northern Skyrim**

She couldn’t go on anymore. The pain in her arm and shoulder was too intense, and even her vampiric strength couldn’t take hours upon hours of slog through the snow and cold, with her arm and shoulder burning and weeping, the charred skin popping whenever she moved, exposing more of her flesh to the biting cold. It felt like the fire burned on under her skin.

Whatever came, came. Even the beast inside her was tired of fighting, and she just closed her eyes. Her legs refused to move and she fell forward, smacking hard and face-first into the snow.

“Roë,” she heard Serana’s weary voice. “Roë, get up.”

She couldn’t. Didn’t want to. And couldn’t.

“I don’t have the patience for your theatrics.”

It didn’t matter what Serana did or did not have the patience for. She was done.

A grunting sigh, and Roë’s body was hoisted into the air, ending up on Serana’s shoulders. She couldn’t move, or do anything that didn’t involve just hanging limp, her arms and legs and head hanging down. All she saw was her own hair, the snow, and the side of Serana’s leg as her erstwhile friend carried her the rest of the way.

Time proceeded as if in a haze. She didn’t know how long Serana had walked with her on her shoulders, but eventually her shoulder flared with burning pain as she was roughly dumped into the rowing boat they used to go to Castle Volkihar.

“You’ll get blood from as many prisoners as you want until your shoulder heals,” Serana told her, grunting as she pulled the oars. “And then, well… you do whatever you want.”

She managed to quietly say, “Serana, I’m…”

“I don’t care, Roë,” Serana sighed, not in anger or hatred, but in disappointment. “I’m sure you have all kinds of justifications, but I don’t want to hear them.”

She hadn’t the energy to talk, nor anything to say, so she let Serana row them to the other shore, hoist her up again, and bring her into the Castle. Before she opened the door, however, she had the decency to let Roë down and let her go inside on her two feet, her arm over Serana’s shoulder and her head drooping forward.

“Hestla,” Serana addressed the first vampire she saw, the armourer who was just about to sit down to feed on a newly deceased slave. “Take her.”

Not ‘take Roë’, ‘take _her_ ’.

She was shifted from shoulder to shoulder, now supported by a bothered Hestla, probably extremely hungry after a night of work.

“Take her to the slave pen, let her feed all she wants to until her shoulder is healed.”

“Mm,” Hestla answered. “And then?”

“She does whatever she wants, I don’t care.”

Roë wasn’t too exhausted to feel her former friend’s disdain cut through her heart.

She was hauled through the atrium and down the stairs to the slave pen.

Namasur’s voice welcomed her back. “Oh my, has ill fortune befallen the Lady Roë?”

The glee in his voice couldn’t be more clear. As well as the hope that the damage was severe.

“That’s right. Ser… _Lady_ Serana said she could drink as much as she wanted to.”

“Oh dear. Our Lord will have objections. After all, the blood is to be evenly distributed – ”

“Stow it, Namasur. There’s plenty for all, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Well… yes, but – ”

“Well then? Go on, put her in the pen and let her drink her fill.”

“You know…” Namasur said in a low voice, thinking Roë couldn’t hear, “we _could_ always…”

“No. I have no interest in joining your bunch of conspirators. I forge armour, I don’t care about the rest.”

“Oh, no, I meant nothing – ”

“Sure you did. Now are you going to open this damn pen or what?”

“Hmph. And when she’s done, should I go get our Lord’s wonderful daughter to retrieve her?”

“No. She said she didn’t give a shit about what she did afterwards.”

“ _Did_ she now?”

Roë was deposited on the straw while Hestla said, “You there. Hold your wrist to her mouth.” And after a short silence, “Do it now or she can feed off your chunks.”

Roë felt, trembling warm skin being pressed against her lips. Even beyond her control, her fangs snapped closed around it, the warm, living blood spurting into her mouth. She drank greedily, and while the blood was slop compared to Serana’s, it still helped, giving her a bit more enregy and dulling the pain of her burns somewhat. She’d need oceans more to heal it all, it felt. But every ocean started with a drop, and on she drank, until the skin in her mouth tore, pulled away.

“Show some dignity, wretch!” it was Namasur’s voice. “Displaying your weakness and your lack of restraint in front of these _humans_. Have you no shame?”

She sat on her hands and knees, her head hanging low. Abandoned by her only friend and despised by everyone else in the castle. How could she feel anything but shame? She took a breath and could only utter, “… More.”

“Then reach for it yourself,” Namasur spat at her. It seemed he already realized that Roë had lost her main protector. “I’m not your nanny. I don’t feed you like your precious benefactor did.” With that, he actually dared to stomp out of the dungeon.

He’d soon be sorry for considering her beneath his respect. They all would. Maybe even Serana… Maybe even her.

She clawed at the air, unable to lift her head to see, and snagged the leg of a prisoner who couldn’t back away fast enough. Oddly, she _did_ have the strength to pull him closer and let her fangs sink into his calf, and once they pierced the man’s flesh, he no longer resisted. Again she drank greedily, taking her fill. The blood didn’t come fast enough, and her other hand lashed out, grabbing her prey by the buttock and pulling him closer. She dragged him hand over hand until she could sink her fangs into his weak Elven throat. She felt his larynx crunch and his body twitch, but she didn’t care.

“Stop! You’re killing him!”

“Please, no! He’s done nothing wrong!”

“Stop you murdering bitch!”

“Someone do something!”

She didn’t hear the voices, not really. Didn’t feel the hands trying to pull her off. She simply drank and drank, numbing the pain, until her victim was dead and his arteries were dry.

She could stand again. Feeling the charred skin on her shoulder break open, she snatched another victim, this one a nubile Breton girl, and drank more, feeling the young, potent blood invigorate her further.

“She’s going to kill us all!”

“Help!”

“She’s out of control, stop her!”

“If we all attack her together, we’ll – ”

Roë cast her dead victim away, the girl’s dead head banging against the bars, and grabbed the man who suggested to attack her. He, too, met his end at her teeth. She no longer had any control of what she did, caught in the frenzy. She threw his body aside, blood running down her chin and throat, and reached out, taking hold of the first throat she could reach.

“Roë! Roë, stop! Stop!”

That voice broke her frenzy. Of course it did. Even now, that voice could reach her, no matter where she was. She let go of the hair on the back of the half-Orc’s head. It was only now she realized that she was about to murder the same half-Orc girl she’d almost killed during her last feeding session. The halfblood’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Roë, what have you done? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m suffering, Serana! I’m in terrible pain, because of what _you_ did!” Roë snarled back. “This is the only way I can – ”

“You’ve… you’ve… I can’t hide this from my father. If he finds out, he’ll…”

“What?” she snapped. “Throw me in his damned sun pit?”

“No, Roë,” Serana said quietly. “He’ll destroy you.”

“Good! Let him!”

“Roë, it will be painful. Excruciating. Vampires who can no longer control themselves are purged… by fire.”

Now, the beast inside her began to protest. It wouldn’t let her surrender, especially not to death by fire. But maybe… maybe there was another way for this to end. She could always confront him, lose, and meet her end as a pillar of flame, but who said she had to lose? Harkon was immensely powerful, but so was she. She couldn’t do it alone, but she didn’t have to, either.

“Then we _deal with your father_ , Serana,” she hissed.

Serana’s mouth fell open. “Deal with my father? _We?_ There is no ‘ _we’_ , Roë.”

The words cut across her soul, but she said regardless, “Your father plans to wring you for every last drop of blood. You _know_ this! If we confront him now, maybe we can – ”

“Without the bow? You’re mad, Roë. Weren’t you listening when I said my father was thousands of years old? Without Auriel’s Bow, there’s no way!”

“What if there were four of us?” Roë asked. “Would there still be no way?”

Serana had to admit, “If… there were four of us, _maybe_. But you’re overlooking one important thing.”

Roë put her hands in her sides. “And what’s that?”

“You just assume I’m willing to fight by your side. Against my own father. And that’s an assumption you’re making too lightly.”

She couldn’t be serious. “Serana. It’s now or never. If your father comes down those stairs and hauls me off to be executed, you’ll have no chance against him. Not without me. And you’re going to doom yourself just because you’re miffed at me? It has to be now!”

Serana sighed and looked at Roê, her blazing eyes dim with sadness. “Roë. This goes beyond our personal differences. I’m afraid of what my father will do when he has what he wants, but… I’m just as afraid of you.”

Rage began boiling up inside of her. Serana was really testing her patience. First she’d burned her half to death, and now she had the nerve to be _afraid_ of her? She had the gall to make _her_ out to be the villain? “Fine, Serana. Listen here. I’m going to find that Bow. And I _will_ find it. When I come back, you’ll either enter the castle together with me, or defend it against me.” With a growl, she added, “Either suits me fine.” It didn’t though, not really. Because even with the rage, the monstrous power turning her into more and more of a beast, even with the hate seething inside her, there was still that one feeling. The feeling of longing, of wanting only to wipe all the problems away and just be with her.

Serana looked up at the stairs and back to Roë.

“What’s it going to be?”

“Promise me you’ll – ”

“No,” Roë cut her off. “No promises, no guarantees, nothing. You come with me now or you’ll stand against me when I come back. But I’ll tell you this: you might _think_ I’ll turn against you, but you _know_ your father will. It should be an obvious choice, and you better make it right now, or I’ll make it for you.”

“I… need to think – ”

“No. like you said, your father will be here any minute, and he’ll give me a horrible, fiery death. For the friendship we once had, think hard about whether or not this is what you want for me.”

“Of course I don’t want – ”

“Then decide now.” _And please decide right. Please stay with me._

Serana ran a hand through her hair, looking around the dungeon, at the slaughtered prisoners, the bloody spatters, and the terrified survivors. Then she looked up the stairs. Meanwhile, Roë grabbed as many blood vials as she could carry, stuffing them in an empty satchel she found tossed between the desk and a wall.

“Fine,” Serana said with a sigh. “But on one condition.”

“I don’t care what your conditions are,” Roë muttered, buckling the front flap of the satchel. Of course she cared.

“That you put any thoughts of us becoming more than reluctant allies out of your head.”

Rage flared up inside Roë. Part of her wanted to tear Serana in two for what she’d just said. Why would she say such a thing? To twist the knife further? To make sure Roë knew full well that she was still inferior to her? Unworthy of her?

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m shit to you,” Roë snarled. “You don’t need to remind me.”

Serana sighed. “You’re not – ”

“Enough!” She slung the satchel over her shoulders, the vials of blood clinking inside it. Feasting on the slaves had made the pain in her shoulder less to the point that it could be ignored to a degree. “I’m leaving, stay or come, I don’t care.”

Serana sighed again, biting her lower lip. “… Fine. I’ll… I’ll come with. I’m… trusting you on this, Roë.”

“What are you trusting me on?” she snapped back. “That we can kill your father? Or that I won’t stab you in the back?”

“Honestly? Both.”

She felt her own eyes narrow, and she hissed at Serana, “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“I guess I will. So, what, we just walk out through the front gate?”

“Not yet,” Roë said curtly. “Wait for me there, I’ll be there in a bit. And don’t even think about ratting me out to your father.”

Serana’s blazing eyes flashed. “I _said_ I’m on your side, Roë. Don’t push it.”

She didn’t even dignify that with an answer. She had allies to secure. Vampires who were powerful enough to provide at least a little bit of help, but not powerful enough to be a threat to her. She knew exactly who to approach.

“Who gave them to you?”

Roë stopped when she heard the voice from down the stairs, coming from the cell block. She recognized it. Oh, this was an unhoped-for opportunity. If she was going to sever her ties with this castle (at least until she was equipped to take it over), she might as well treat herself to this little act of satisfaction. Because this was going to be a pleasure. But, since she recognized the voice, she also knew there was no hurry anymore.

Namasur couldn’t report what he’d never see.

“I know you got two vials from someone. Who?”

Silence. Roë stood at the top of the stairs, listening.

“No matter. I know who it was. And all I have to do is bring this before Lord Harkon and we’ll all be rid of this arriviste parvenu who dares to call herself ‘noble’.”

She’d been called many things, but never an ‘arriviste parvenu’. Namasur’s vocabulary was larger than his heedfulness, it would seem. His vocabulary notwithstanding, however, he was given no answer by the two Vampires in the holding cell.

“Will you make me come in there and stab some pointy things in those deliciously vulnerable open patches of skin?”

And he’d just informed Roë that he had the key to these cells. Ah, such a thoughtful unintentional ally he was. She’d heard enough. It was time for Namasur to answer for his constant irreverence. It was about time they all learned some respect. She was a noble, and the next ruler of Castle Volkihar. Disrespect would not be tolerated.

What little colour remained, drained instantly out of Namasur’s ugly face when he saw her. “L… Lady Roë!”

“Spare me the titles,” Roë said in her calmest, most amiable voice as she carefully put the satchel on the ground. “You don’t use them when you’re talking behind my back either.”

“I… I would never – ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have misheard then, when you were calling me an ‘arriviste parvenu’.”

That told him enough. Roë saw the realization on his face, that he wouldn’t get out of this one with lying and grovelling. His demeanour promptly changed. Gone was the toadying hand-wringer, replaced by a cornered animal, his mouth and ugly pig nose contorted in a snarl. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going straight to Lord Harkon, and I’m telling him everything. What you did to the slaves, how you smuggled vials into these cells, _everything_.”

He wasn’t going to anyone, wasn’t going to tell anything. Roë let her mouth pull into a confident, devilish sneer, knowing it would make things clear enough.

And make things clear it did. Namasur backed away until he hit the wall, his hands against it as if he was going to push himself through. “You… you wouldn’t dare. Everyone will know it was you. Lord Harkon will – ”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Roë grated low. “The next time _Lord_ Harkon will see me is when I chase an arrow from Auriel’s Bow into his heart.”

“Y… you mean to…”

“It doesn’t matter to you. Not anymore.” Her hands hooked into claws at her side as she approached him. “It’s time for you to die.”

Namasur inhaled to cry for help, but Roë cut his breath short before it could exit his throat. Her claws slashed in a horizontal arc, tearing out his larynx and part of his windpipe, sending them splattering against the wall. Namasur immediately went down and showed his belly, holding his hands out in front of him, begging silently for mercy, a gurgling wheeze the only sound his ruined throat could still produce.

There would be no mercy and he was a fool to ask for it. Roë grabbed his ankle, and as if he was weightless, she swung his body over her head, sending it smacking hard into the stones behind her. Namasur clawed at the stones, blood spraying from his destroyed face, but Roë simply lifted him up again, swinging him overhead, back to the other side, and further breaking his body on the stones he’d stood on. The pain in her shoulder was insignificant compared to the satisfaction she felt.

His face was a mess of blood and teeth, his body a sack of broken bones. Roë had half a mind to prolong his suffering, but every moment she stayed was dangerous. She couldn’t waste time, much as she wanted to. She stepped over to the shattered remains of the slave master, permitting herself a few precious seconds to watch his broken, bloodied jaw move, and then she brought her boot down on his cracked, partially collapsed skull, flattening it and sending his brain tissue, eyes and blood bursting out in a red, gruesome many-pointed star.

Strings of viscous goo stretched from the sole of her boot to the mass of head that lay flattened on the stones.

“W… well, he’s… dead.”

Garen Marethi stood at the bars, his face a burned and smouldering horror, the skin peeled off in blackened patches, smoke still curling up from the open wounds. He was less ashamed of it than Fura was, but his face was still tense with great pain.

“And it was about time,” Roë grunted back, wiping her boot on the chest of the dead Vampire’s tunic. “The world will not be poorer for it.”

“I… heard the sound of glass when you… put the satchel down. Is there a-any chance of…?”

Right, that. Roë picked up the satchel, holding it by the strap, but didn’t push it through the bars. They weren’t getting it for free. She needed a pretty serious guarantee, or they could stay in their sun pit, he and Fura. “Not just like that. I need a promise from you both first.”

Garen Marethi stood waiting, biting the pain but having no other expression on his face. He probably knew there’d be strings attached from the moment he noticed the satchel. Fura just sat huddled and shivering in the darkness, a heap of misery almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lightless cell.

“You heard what I said to Namasur,” Roë said flatly. “Harkon’s going down, but I can’t do it alone. Serana’s already with me, but we need all the allies we can get. Choose now. Either you stay right where you are and do your time in the sun pit, with still years and years to go, and get sent right back there when Harkon feels like it… _or_ you can join me, take control of your own destiny, and become valued and justly-treated vassals under my reign.”

Marethi was silent for a moment. “You mean, your and Lady S-Serana’s reign?”

She could say no more than, “We’ll see about that.”

“Assuming this is not an underhanded ploy from Lord Harkon to test our loyalties…” He waited for a response from her.

“Yes. Because that’s why I just stomped on Namasur’s head. To test the loyalty of two Vampires who are powerless and imprisoned.”

That made sense to Garethi. “I have… few moral reservations about deposing Lord Harkon,” Garen said, choosing his words carefully. “Especially after spending a few days in this pit. But Lady Serana… she’s never treated any of us unfairly.”

This called for some quick thinking. “I mean that Serana might not be all that eager to rule,” Roë half-lied. “She and I are still allies.”

Garen took a moment to think, hunched over and shivering with pain. “I’ll do anything to get out of this pit at… at the moment. And that includes… standing up to Lord Harkon, and even risking my head by trusting you when you say… you’re not testing us.”

“Good.”

“But… only if we both… agree.”

That wouldn’t be a problem.

“Fura?” Roë made the bag of blood vials clink to make sure she was convincing enough.

Silently, a clawed, burned hand shot out of the darkness, palm upward.

 


	54. Falnas: Blindsighted

 

**FALNAS**

**Blindsighted**

**The Ragged Flagon, Cistern**

 

“Ouch. Looks like our beloved patron wasn’t joking when she said the curse was at work even now.”

One hand pressed against the side of her face, a bloody rag against her cheek, Vex waddled in, her face a mixture of pain and frustration.

“No, Falnas, it looks like she wasn’t,” Brynjolf said as they watched the blonde approach. She looked like she’d just gotten the teeth on one side of her mouth pulled by a horse-drawn cart.

“Not. A word.”

“Are you badly hurt, Vex?” Karliah asked, cocking her head in concern.

Even though she’d forbidden her company from saying anything, she did reply, “More in my pride than anything. Guards made me when I tried to sneak into that bedamned wedding.”

Brynjolf grimaced. “That’s a tough deal.”

“Managed to steal anything?” Karliah asked, trying to focus on the positive.

“Mm. Just this. Not bad, but could have been a lot more.” She fished a red, sharply-cut gemstone from her pocket. It had a natural buoyancy, almost like it was floating above her palm. Falnas had heard from them. Stones of… some queen. Apparently there was a certain number of them, spread across Tamriel, and finding them all… well, something would happen. The legends were a bit murky on that.

“Ah,” Brynjolf said, lighting up. “One of those shiny bloody diamond stones.”

Karliah nodded. “The ones that shoot the stars into your mind.”

“Good job, Vex,” Falnas risked saying.

“No,” she snapped back. “It was an awful job. I got booted before I’d even begun. I swear, I’m beginning to believe Delvin when he says the damn Guild is cursed.”

As much as he would have loved to leave Vex even more vexed by saying it was all down to her amateurism, Falnas told her, “You’re more right than you know. A lot of things have been happening, and a lot of things make sense now. Including the Guild’s shitty luck.” They were regular clothes over their Nightingale gear, to avoid any questions before they had a chance to announce their new status to everyone.

“… Which started about the same time you arrived,” Vex pointed out.

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” Karliah admonished her. “The Guild _is_ cursed, we’ve confirmed it.”

A sour smile broke on Vex’ sharp features. “I’m sure Delvin would love to hear that.”

Brynjolf nodded. “And he will. You’ve got time to see Tonilia and get freshened up. Guild meeting in an hour.”

There weren’t many Initiates left to shoo out. Most had left and not returned when they’d heard of the empty vault. There was just a sullen-looking Redguard girl who kept rubbing her butt with a pained expression, and a particularly foul-smelling Khajiit. They were told to wait outside until Delvin arrived and they could start the meeting. With Sapphire out on a job in Markarth, Delvin was the only one they had to wait for.

With Delvin returned, they once again took their places at the table, in the dark, with only a few candles. It had become a tradition which Falnas enjoyed despite his usual dislike for stuffy rituals. It had a certain… intimacy about it.

“Roight,” Delvin kicked off. “Karliah wanted a Guild meetin’, so I s’pose we’ll let ‘er start the chin-waggin’.”

“Thank you, Delvin, for the… very Delvin-like introduction,” Karliah said, prompting an amused grin from the bald Breton. “And I’ve got some news which is good for you, but not so good for everyone else.” She paused for effect. “The Guild is, indeed, cursed.”

Delvin slapped his hands down on the table. “Bloody well knew it, I did!”

“That’s a bold statement, Karliah,” Tonilia said gently. “What made you come to that conclusion?”

“We were told,” Brynjolf answered in her stead, “by the only… well, ‘person’… who’d know for certain, and who has no reason to lie to us.”

“And who would that be?” Vex asked, her face healed but still a bit swollen on one side. “The ghost of the Gray Fox.”

“Even better,” Karliah said flatly. “We were told by Nocturnal herself.”

Silence fell for a few seconds, after which Delvin shot into a barking laugh. “You takin’ the piss, Karliah? What, you tellin’ me Nocturnal ‘erself came down from the ‘eavens, to pass that little tidbit of information along?”

“No, Delvin,” Falnas said. “She didn’t come from the heavens and we went to see _her_. And the reason she told us of the curse is because _she_ ’s the one who cast it on the Guild.”

Delvin fel silent and blinked. “What? Why’d she…”

“The Skeleton Key is no longer in its pedestal, Delvin,” Karliah merely said. “The Guild is cursed until we return it.”

Vex snorted. “Yeah, sure. And did _Nocturnal_ have the thoughtfulness to tell you who took it?”

Tonilia said gently, “It should be obvious, Vex.”

“Bloody shithead Mercer’s who it was,” Delvin spat. “… if this is even true.”

“It’s true,” Brynjolf only said.

Pouring herself another modest measure of brandy, Tonilia asked, “And I suppose this curse won’t lift until our patron Daedra Princess gets her Key back?”

Falnas nodded. “That’s exactly how it is.”

“So then.” Delvin leaned backwards in his chair. “Our goals and Nocturnal’s coincide. She wants ‘er key back, and we want to give Mercer a good beatin’.”

“ _If_ all of this is even true,” Vex threw at Karliah. “We’re taking a lot at your word, aren’t we? First some translated journal when we can’t read the original, and now you claim to have visitations from Nocturnal. What’s next? Will we have to believe you when you say you saw the face of Talos in your roasted bread this morning?”

“You don’t have to take our word for it,” Karliah simply said. She opened the laces of her tunic and showed her the emblem of Nocturnal on her jet black Nightingale armour, the candlelight lighting up the silvery edges.

“Oh my,” Tonilia said, amused. “Ye of little faith…”

Vex’ mouth fell open. “N… no way.”

“I’ll be damned,” Delvin breathed. “Nightingales? Nocturnal made _you_ Nightingales? You three?”

Brynjolf nodded, showing his emblem as Falnas did the same. “She did, Delvin.”

“Well that’s old bollocks,” Delvin grunted. “Listen, strange women hidin’ in caves distributin’ armour suits is no basis for a system of Guild governance. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate of the members, not some farcical underground ceremony.”

Karliah chuckled. “Nocturnal didn’t make us Nightingales so we could govern the Guild, Delvin. She made us Nightingales… well, in my case, reinstated me as one… so we could face Mercer on equal ground. He’s a Nightingale too. As was Gallus.”

Delvin shook his head. “Well, bugger me with a fish fork.”

Vex had her hand extended towards Karliah’s collarbone. “Can I… touch it?”

“Uh…”

Vex let her fingers brush over the material. “Mm. Silky.”

“So what’s our next step?” Tonilia said, bringing them back to the business at hand.

“The next step,” Brynjolf explained, “is going after Mercer and getting that Skeleton Key back.”

Vex blinked. “Why does that Key even have to be returned? I mean, why would Nocturnal make a Key that unlocks all doors and then not want anyone to use it? How illogical is that?”

Falnas shrugged. “They’re Daedra Princes, they don’t have to be logical, I s’pose.”

“It’d be nice if we knew where Mercer is hiding though,” Tonilia mused. “Or at least, where he’s likely to go.”

“We already know,” Karliah said with a grin. “The bastard is attempting the biggest heist ever pulled in Skyrim.”

“What, is he goin’ to steal Jarl Elisif’s undergarments?”

“ _No_ , Delvin, but close. He means to steal the Eyes of the Falmer.”

Vex grunted, “I was going to ask if those are even real, but I’m not going to make the same mistake twice in a day.”

“They are real,” Karliah confirmed. “I know where they are, in the bowels of an ancient Dwemer ruin, but when we, the three previous Nightingales, found them, we couldn’t enter the ruin. The door and the walls around it were inches thick and made of Dwemer steel, and the lock… well, not even Mercer could open that.”

“Until now,” Tonilia concluded.

“Until now. He’s probably trying to cut the Eyes free as we speak. They’re supposedly extremely fragile, so he’ll be busy for a while. But if we don’t catch him now, and he gets the Eyes out of there, we’ll never see him again, and then his victory over Gallus and me will be complete.”

Tonilia nodded. “Gallus was a good man. You know what to do then?”

Brynjolf stood up and struck a pose. “Nightingale squad… move out!”


	55. Reborn in Fire

**Reborn in Fire**

 

Flames raged around him, the heat searing on his skin. Smoke hung in the corridor on the house’s upper level, and Keljarn had to run bent-over to keep from inhaling it. The baby wailed and screamed. Good. If it could wail, it lived.

The boards cracked and splintered under his feet. Nine damn it, he had to hurry up! He kicked the door open and made for the crib, his hands and knees bonking on the floorboards. The heat was blistering, and he prayed to whomever would listen that his hair wouldn’t just spontaneously burst into flame, the fire consuming him whole. He reached the crib and reached up, sitting upright on his knees. As his hand touched the metal of the crib, however, he screamed in pain, the iron so hot it literally melted the skin on the palm of his hand to itself. Tearing his hand away and biting the pain, Keljarn scrambled to his feet, lifted the little child out of the crib, taking care not to touch any metal parts, and made a run for it.

Through the smoke, he saw that the little guy, or girl, already had a few small blisters on the cheeks. He could do nothing but hope he’d made it in time. All thought of Siari, the murdering little bitch, had been completely driven from his mind, and all there was now was the need to save this little bundle of life in his hands.

The corridor was a sea of flame, and there was no way he was getting through. A beam crashed down in front of him, burning as it went, smashing a hole in the smouldering floor. Flames immediately whooshed up from the opening. Shit, the entire lower floor was ablaze.

“You ready, little guy?” Keljarn coughed and hacked, turning on his heels, holding his breath and running back inside the baby’s room, charging straight at the window.

It was as if the flames tried to reach for him and pull him back inside as he went through the glass, the baby cradled in his arms, then he was clear of the fire, flying through the air, weightless, thinking of nothing else than keeping the little thing safe.

No matter what happened to him, all that mattered was the life in his arms. Whether Siari escaped or not, whether he lived or died, none of it was worth a damn.

He went flying head over heels, and the last thing he felt was his teeth clacking together as his body struck the ground.

 


	56. To Kill an Empire

 

**SIARI**

**To Kill an Empire**

**Sanctuary**

 

It’d be forever a mystery to her whether or not the bastard had died in the fire or if he had survived, but she knew he was off her back. That much was certain. All her muscles ached and her entire body felt like it needed four or five days of sleep, but she’d made it. Escaped all on her own, no help from anyone, not even Sithis. She was not unproud, even though luck had lent her a little hand. If that baby hadn’t been in that crib… She caught herself hoping that he’d actually made it. Got the little kid out of there at least.

She frowned at herself for being so soft. It wasn’t like her. She didn’t like it when it happened. It was just a stupid baby. Babies died all the time. And yet…

She shook her head to clear it, and with her teeth set, she concentrated on the road ahead, the trees flying past her as Shadowmere took her to Sanctuary. She dismounted, gave the skull door a good, long, commanding glare, and walked in.

“I trust Maro is dead?” Astri asked curtly, not even looking up from her desk. She was writing on parchments, jotting down whatever-the-shit. Siari didn’t care, she just nodded, knowing Astrid couldn’t see but not caring about that either.

“Good, good. Go get some rest.”

Astrid acted like she was too busy to spare Siari a glance, but it almost felt as if… as if Astrid simply didn’t dare to look her in the eye. Something was going on, Daedra damn it, something wasn’t right. Was she perhaps disappointed that she’d returned? Siari’s suspicion of Astrid siccing the Nord on her became too strong to ignore. She had to confront her now, or he might actually make another appearance in her life after all.

She took an empty scrap of paper and wrote,

_crazy nord came after me again_

_curious as to how he keeps finding me_

and handed it to Astrid, sliding it towards her, right over the parchment she was writing on.

“Damn it, Siari, can’t you see I’m busy?” Astrid snapped, her face annoyed, but she picked up the paper and read it anyway, her frown deepening. It had gotten her attention at least, because she muttered, “That _is_ strange. Any idea who he is at least?”

Siari took the paper back and wrote simply,

_yes_

“Yes, and…?” Astrid asked. “Who is he?”

_jorrvaskr_

“I’ll be… “ Was the surprise real or acted? Hard to tell. “How could he have possibly tracked you down?”

She had to do this. It would probably break their bond permanently if it was a false accusation, but Astrid had a right to know she was Siari’s prime suspect.

_was it you_

“Wh… was it me, what?” Astrid stammered, feigning incomprehension. Because now she was clearly putting on an act, but that still didn’t mean anything, she could still be innocent. “Wait, you mean…?”

Siari simply stood in silence.

“Siari, how could you think such a thing?” The anger explosion Siari had expected didn’t come. Instead, Astrid treated her to a display of wounded innocence. “I would never… I would _die_ before I’d betray you to such a… such an _animal_.”

It… sounded credible enough. But while Astrid was irascible, jealous and petty, she had times when she managed to hide her feelings. Then again, what had she hoped for? Barring a confession, the only thing she could have accomplished was to have as much doubt as before.

“Siari…” Astrid began, standing up. “You have to understand… I’m only human. I have human feelings, I make human mistakes. Sometimes I do things you might not understand, but believe me when I say I only have our family’s well-being at heart with everything I do.”

The _entire_ family?

“Don’t give me that look,” she sighed. “I have enough worries without having to deal with your suspicion. Siari… You’re my daughter, I’d never do anything to hurt you. I _promise_. I had nothing to do with it.”

The daughter thing was up for debate, but Astrid sounded sincere. Siari doubted she was a good enough liar to pull this off. So maybe it was true, maybe this hadn’t been Astrid’s doing. Astrid put her arms around Siari, as she’d done before, and she let her. “I know I’ve made things a bit difficult at times, but… at least believe me on this, my daughter: I love you with all my heart.”

Siari couldn’t allow herself to feel safe and secure, cradled in Astrid’s arms, much as she wanted to. More conflicting emotions rose to the surface and she pushed them deep down, freeing herself from Astrid’s embrace. She placed her palms on each other, cocked her head and laid it on the pillow of her hands, closing her eyes.

“Yes, of course,” Astrid said, looking almost relieved that the conversation was over. “Go get some sleep. I have a big day tomorrow.” She smiled. “A _very_ big day.”

Rest, sure, but she had someone to talk to first. Or better, to listen to.

 _You survived the confrontation against Hircine’s hunter_ , the voice echoed in her head as she stood by the sarcophagus of the Night Mother. She nodded in reply even though it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if the Night Mother could actually see.

_And without my intervention. Impressive, even though Hircine offered his champion no aid either. I imagine the hunt would have ended unfavourably for you otherwise. You’ve survived a werewolf attack once, by pure chance, but you would not have survived a second._

She didn’t need to be reminded.

_My Listener, your return fills me with great joy. Your conflicted ‘mother’ wishes to advance our great plot to return the Brotherhood to the lustre it once had, but I fear her devotion does not serve Sithis, but rather herself._

Ugh, what was it this time?

_She means to enact the final phase of our endeavour._

Yes, so? Wasn’t that a good thing?

_She would assassinate the Emperor by her own hand, rather than that of the Listener._

Yes, so? Wasn’t that a good thing too? Siari had never been in it for the glory.

_This will not do. You must return to her now and make my will clear to her. The Listener must be the one to behead the Empire. And to be perfectly unambiguous, I will not tolerate her turning this into a tug of war. Make my intentions apparent, and unmistakably so. You are my Listener, and backtalk to you is backtalk to me. And backtalk to me… is backtalk to Sithis._

Did the Night Mother realize what she was asking? Astrid still wasn’t convinced she was even the Listener at all, and only accepted Siari’s claims grudgingly. And now, with Siari trying to steal her moment of glory, her due as head of the family (as she would doubtless see it), Astrid would question her legitimacy as far as she dared, and despite earlier proof, Siari would have nothing to offer but her word.

 _There is no need for doubt in your mind, sweet child_ , the Night Mother’s voice came into her head, loving and reassuring. _I am aware of your difficult position in this. But do not be concerned, you will not need to defend your status._ The voice in her head turned ice cold. _Astrid will listen to you, or I will speak to her directly. It is an audience she will not survive._

Astrid would hate her for this. Not the Night Mother. Astrid would either assume Siari actually _wanted_ the honour of performing the assassination (she did, but not enough to sever all ties with her surrogate mother for it), or she’d simply stab the messenger. In either case, their relationship would never recover from this. The possibility of being forced to simply remove Astrid once again reminded her of its existence, and she felt a painful stab at the realization. She resented Astrid, and this should make it easy, but there was more in her heart. More than just gratitude for taking her in. More than just the affection for someone she’d known for months and who’d treated her like a daughter before the Night Mother had come. A sort of… understanding. As if she could feel what Astrid was going through and realized why she did the things she did.

She hated those feelings. Hated it when they wriggled their way into her heart when she was unaware. Once more, she pushed them deep down, stomping down on them with the weight of her indolent apathy. It was simply easier to not feel things.

Taking a breath, she entered Astrid’s office again.

“I thought I told you to get some rest? I need to prepare, I don’t have time for you right now, Siari, please understand.”

She did have time. Her schedule had just been freed up. Siari took a scrap of paper and wrote,

_sorry astrid_

_night mother wants me to do it_

_not my idea i swear_

Feeling a slight twinge of meanness, she added,

_please understand_

Astrid read the paper, her face like stone. Siari didn’t know what to expect. She could fly into a fulminating rage, act the wounded mother, or simply feign compliance or anything in between. But she just sat there, silent, her eyes on the paper.

Siari remained just as silent as Astrid (how could she not), and waited until she had some kind of reaction. The moments were long, and felt like a battle of patience, which it probably was.

At length Astrid said hoarsely, “The Night Mother wants you to do it, does she?”

Siari merely nodded.

“Did she say why?”

Siari wrote,

_no_

_just said it had to be the listener_

Tears stood in her eyes when she read the paper, though she tried to hide them by looking away. “So this is what we do then? Obey, do as we’re ordered without the dignity of being told why?”

Astrid’s entire family had already known what that felt like, except Astrid herself. Siari wrote,

_it’s what we’ve always done for you too_

Astrid didn’t even manage to come up with any justification or any denial. “Is that really what you think?” She shook her head, her eyes still on the paper. “I’m not some tyrant, Siari. I’m your _mother_. I do what’s best for us. I’ve never threatened you, never punished you. You, and the others did what I asked out of _love_. And don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

She wasn’t going to. She wasn’t going to tell her ‘mother’ that people did what they were told because of Astrid’s loving mother-act. Because they, without realizing, knew how fragile and vulnerable Astrid’s ego was. Because they wanted to _allow_ Astrid to feel like the wise, beloved mother of the family. Because they permitted this feeling to Astrid. Conceded it to her, and were happy to let her have the illusion of being the unquestionable, unassailable, faultless guide of the family.

No, she wasn’t going to tell her that. Let her have her ideas. The only thing that mattered right now was,

_the night mother wants it that way_

_i’m only doing as i’m told_

“Convenient though, is it?” Astrid said sharply, her mouth rigid. “The Night Mother always orders you to do things that will bring _you_ respect and status, and undermine my position. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you’re – ”

Siari let her fist come down hard on the table, so hard even Astrid couldn’t maintain her image as unflappable, phlegmatic leader, recoiling in surprise, her eyelids fluttering.

 _don’t_ _finish that sentence_

Siari scribbled it quickly and held the paper in front of Astrid’s face.

“Why not? Are you beyond criticism?” Astrid challenged, her face hard with the desire for confrontation. “Beyond scepticism? Is _she_? Should we just blindly accept everything you say?”

Siari scribbled on, barely legible, but she had to be quick, because Astrid was in the process of making things much worse for all of them.

 _i’m just some orphan off the streets_ , she wrote, even though she knew she was much more.

_just a messenger_

_but you have to accept my message_

_because the night mother said if you don’t_

_she’ll deliver the message in person_

Astrid read the paper and crossed her arms. “Oh, really? Let her, then. I’ve served Sithis faithfully for _years_.” She banged a fist on the table and went to her feet, sweeping her hand in front of her. “I’m not _demanding_ more from her than messages relayed by someone else. I’m saying I _deserve_ more! And if she’s even in the least bit reasonable, she’ll realize that asking me to just blindly accept everything you say is impossible even for the most devoted believer.”

_we’re all being tested astrid_

_maybe this is your test_

Astrid read the paper, smouldering. “So my test is accepting everything you say? Blindly? That’s awfully convenient for you, isn’t it?”

Siari shook her head.

_if night mother has to tell you herself_

_said you wouldn’t survive_

_not a threat from me_

_please believe me_

Astrid snatched the paper out of Siari’s hand and without even reading it, slammed it down on the table, shouting, “I am _sick_ of you and your _damn_ silence and your _damn_ papers and your _damn_ dirty looks all the time! I am _sick_ of you looking at me with your stupid mute face and scribbling on your stupid papers and every conversation lasting _hours_!” Tears stood in her eyes again and Siari let her have her little breakdown, staring at her with apathetic eyes. It wasn’t the first time someone lost patience with her inability to speak. At least Astrid didn’t cane her like Grelod did.

Panting, Astrid came to her senses, wiping her tears away with her wrists, ashamed for them, or for her outbreak, or for both. “I’m sorry, Siari… That wasn’t fair of me. It’s just… so hard to have a conversation with you sometimes. So tiring.”

Siari gave a lopsided shrug. She’d heard that before.

Astrid let herself fall in her chair. “Fine. Do what the Night Mother says. I won’t get in your way. You’ll get to have your moment at my expense. Now leave me.”

Siari reached for a piece of paper, but Astrid snapped, “I said _leave me_!”

There seemed to be, indeed, nothing to be gained by staying.

Gabriella was already asleep, snoring softly. Siari had to smile at the sound. Then her smile broke into a stifled giggle when Gabriella let out a modest gaseous by-product of her digestion in her sleep. There were still some things to be happy about in this dysfunctional little family.

She had trouble sleeping with all the questions and tensions, but she must have at some point, because she opened her eyes to see Gabriella gone. She rose as well, looking for her leathers but not finding them. Strange. Then she noticed the note.

_Your leathers are already on site. Wear normal clothes for now. Read the instructions you’ll get in my office - A_

Shrugging on a tunic and breeches, she trudged for the breakfast table, where she, predictably, found Festus face deep in a caramel pastry. He mumbled a greeting with his mouth full and Siari gave him a smile in return, taking a ladle full of heated milk from the kettle and sploshing it down in a bowl of ground oats.

As she waited, looking at the oats to bind with the milk and turn into porridge, Festus told her, his mouth a little less full, “Big day today.”

Siari looked up. “Mm?”

An uncomfortable chuckle from Festus. “So strange to hear you use your voice. But yes, I assume you’ve heard we’re putting the crown on our work today?”

She shook her head. Better to pretend she didn’t know, to hear just what Astrid had told her ‘family’.

“Yes, yes,” Festus said, excited. “Assuming we don’t fail miserably, today is the day of the Emp…” he stopped and grinned. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Siari gave him her most sheepish grin.

“Of course you did,” he chuckled. “You’re the Listener, after all. Then you also know who’s going to plant the dagger?”

Siari flicked her eyebrows.

“… You?” Festus asked, his eyes wide. “Oh, little lady, I do envy you. But I suppose it’s only just. You will remember us when you’re rich and famous, yes?”

She playfully slapped his shoulder. It was just a job like any other.

He put his hand on top of hers and said, dead serious, “Do it right, my dear. A lot depends on this.” It looked a bit ludicrous with his chin smeared with caramel. “Our family needs this.”

Siari nodded to reassure him. Then she smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. She hoped she looked more confident than she felt. She was going to assassinate the _Emperor of Cyrodiil_. No job had the potential to go so tragically wrong as this one. When she felt her belly knot at the stress, she quickly shifted her thoughts somewhere else, staring at her porridge and decided, why not, to shovel in a spoonful of sugar, prompting a hoarse laugh from Festus. “That’s my girl!”

She ate her porridge while Festus polished off the caramel pastry, then went to Astrid’s office to get her instructions.

“Siari Siari Siari!”

That could only be one person. Siari grinned as she turned to see Babette running towards her on her short little legs.

“It’s today, it’s today!” Babette grabbed her sleeve with both hands and chirped, “Tell me you’re the one that gets to do it! Tell me it’s you! It’s got to be you, right?”

Siari indulged her with a smile and a roll of her eyes, nodding in confirmation.

Babette bounced, still holding Siari’s sleeve. “Eee! I knew it! I _so_ knew it!”

Siari had to laugh along at Babette’s excitement.

Babette let go, still beaming. “Wish I’d get to shank the old fart myself, but you were totally my second choice.”

Siari gave her a curtsy, then pointed towards Astrid’s office.

“Oh, of course! Go get ‘em, girl!”

Oh, she would. Hopefully. First she had to stomach some more Astrid, though. She knocked on the door, but there was no response. She waited a few seconds, then raised her hand to knock again, but before she could, the door swung open and Arnbjorn shoved a parcel in her hand. “Astrid’s instructions,” he said gruffly. “She’s not here right now.”

She raised her hand in thanks, but all she got was a hateful look from Arnbjorn. “Fuck off.”

Not even a meat-related nickname. He must be really angry. But then, what did she expect.

On the way out, she ran into Gabriella, who had a basket of herbs and ingredients under her arm. “Siari. On your way out, huh? I assume that means…?”

She assumed correctly.

Gabriella put the basket down and gently took Siari by the shoulders. “I’m not going to babble about what an honour it is. But Siari… be careful, alright? I mean it. This’ll be like nothing before. I don’t want to see anything happen to my bunkmate.” She cast a furtive glance around, then said quietly, bringing her face closer, “If it gets too dangerous, just drop it and get out, alright? No matter how important everyone says this is, your life matters more.”

It was nice to hear, but she had a job to do, and failure wasn’t an option. She had no doubt that the Night Mother’s tolerance for failure was close to non-existent.

“Hey,” Gabriella said, taking Siari’s face in her hands. She hated being touched so intimately, but she knew she had to allow it to avoid hurt feelings. “I’m serious, alright? I know you’ve got the skill to pull this off, but take no risks, you hear?”

Siari nodded.

Gabriella planted a light, short kiss of friendship on Siari’s lips. “Come back, no matter what it takes. And that’s an order.”

Shadowmere waited for her outside with stomping hooves. She mounted the animal and let it take her to Solitude, holding one hand on the reins and reading the papers Astrid had prepared with the other. Also in the parcel were some overclothes and a small vile of viscous black liquid. Seemed it would be a poisoning rather than a shanking. Made sense, because no way would she be allowed to carry a knife near the Emperor, Gourmet or not.

She read on, Astrid’s writing describing the procedure to be followed in ice cold sterility. She was to pose as the Gourmet, present herself at the castle in Solitude, and from there, proceed to the kitchen, to make the Empoeror’s finest meal. While cooking, she had to mix in the poison without it being observed. The last part of the job was getting out safely. There was no doubt that it would be a challenge to escape after the Emperor was poisoned and you were the one making the food. It wasn’t like they’d be suspecting the bootblack first.

There was a plan of the castle, and another paper was a writ of passage, a piece of papyrus reinforced with cotton fibres, gold trimmed, marking her as the Gourmet and granting her special access to all kitchen and pantry areas, as well as allowing her presence at the dinner table. Siari wasn’t so sure about that last bit.

Solitude came closer, and with it, the Dark Brotherhood’s salvation or destruction. There was no doubt this Amaund Motierre fellow was setting himself up to be Titus Mede’s replacement, so he’d probably remember what the Brotherhood had done for him, but if she failed… she doubted Titus Mede would reward their efforts the same way.

She dismounted and retreated into a nearby bush to don the festive and expensive overclothes, a tight robe cinched at the waist, purple and yellow in colour and rather generous in cleavage, and a nobleman’s hat in the same colours, with a feather worked into the side. She could wear them over her leathers without it being too conspicuous, so all she’d have to do to make her getaway was retrieve them after being searched. Astrid’s instructions had said they were stashed in the reservoir of the water closets at the donjon level. Good.

She felt ill at ease in the festive noblewoman’s clothing (if only it had been a bridesmaid’s dress!), but she was determined not to show it. She was, after all, the Gourmet. No one knew what she was supposed to look like. The Gourmet could easily be a teenage Nord with a finger and tongue missing.

Walking up to the Solitude gates, she presented herself to the guard who stood beside the door, leaning on his spear.

“Guest or staff?” he intoned in a bored voice, but when he noticed her, he snorted. “Nevermind. Must be a guest, judging by the fancy clothes.”

Siari wondered how this guy still had a job and hadn’t been beheaded by a furious noble ten times already. She held out the writ of passage with a smile, determined not to make any waves.

“Well I’ll be. I’spose that’s staff then.” He whistled between his teeth. “The famous Gourmet. Never thought he’d be a she. And certainly not a waif like you.”

It hadn’t been a compliment. Apparently her expensive clothes couldn’t hide her less than glorious social status. If she let him go on, he’d probably get suspicious, so she placed her hands in her sides and gave him a scorching frown.

“Fine, fine,” he backed off. “Go on in. Go make some dishes for the Emperor while our bellies grumble.”

Oh boo-hoo. She ignored him and went inside. A valet came to meet her, a young lad with a bowl cut and Solitude livery. “Greetings, welcome, welcome. May I invite you to follow me to the garden for refreshments and musical entertainment?”

Siari shook her head and held out the writ.

“Oh my,” the valet peeped, his eyes going wide. He looked at the writ again to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him, but then he said, “My word, I’d never dreamed I’d meet the famous Gourmet. And so young, and so…” He suddenly remembered himself and going purple with embarrassment, he stammered, “Oh, but forgive me, where are my manners. I sincerely apologize for this lapse in – ”

Siari held up a hand to quiet him, but gave him a smile to make sure he knew no harm was done. The less fuss, the better.

“Right, I’ll… I’ll shut up and do my job. Your forgiveness.” He was still purple, the poor guy. He was pretty cute, looking like that. “Please, allow me to show you to the kitchen. You must be very eager to get started.”

He led her up a winding staircase, occasionally weaving to let servants pass who carried baskets of foodstuffs, some up, some down. The ones going down invariably had one or two spoiled pieces of fruit or vegetable inside them. How wasteful to throw away the whole basket because of a few rotten bits.

“Gianna is a fine cook, but her skills pale to your art, Gourmet,” the valet expounded as he walked ahead of her. “She makes a wonderful butternut soup especially, but only because she followed your recipe. I must say, your suggestion of adding some dried and crushed dragon’s claw leaves was pure genius.”

Yes, yes, she knew she was wonderful.

“And then your cream and cocoa scones. Oh, such joy in such a small scone.”

Please, you do me too much honour.

“But what I especially adored was the cake with carrot shavings. Carrots in a cake! It takes a true artist to come up with – ”

An Imperial woman with tanned skin stood at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed. “Was I not clear? No guests in the kitchen, Bennard! Did you have shit in your ears when I told you?”

“Mistress Gianna…” the boy said quietly, the cook’s withering tirade reducing him to half his size, “… this is the Gourmet.”

The brown-haired woman needed a moment to let it sink in. How strangely she was dressed. She had a chef’s hat on her head, but her clothes were decidedly un-chef-like. Her laced white bodice, which only barely restrained her bulging breasts, belonged more in a brothel than a kitchen. Then again, Siari’s outfit wasn’t exactly appropriate either.

“This? The Gourmet?” the woman asked, overcoming her initial surprise.

“She has the writ, mistress Gianna.”

“Well I’ll be,” the cook breathed. “I’d imagined a lot of things, but never… someone your age. Stunning. Just… stunning.” She cleared her throat. “Very well, Bennard, make yourself scarce, I’ll handle it from here.”

“But – ” the valet protested.

“I said _go_ , Bennard.” She shooed him away.

He bowed low, first to the cook, and then to Siari and muttered, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gourmet.” Siari didn’t fail to notice his eyes briefly straying over the top of her breasts when he left. Heh, boys.

“I swear, that one…” the chef muttered, shaking her head as if Siari and she were comrades-in-arms in the fight against the uneducated lower classes. “Now, esteemed Gourmet, shall we begin?”

Oh Sithis, they were actually going to ask her to cook. Apart from roasting meat on a campfire or mixing oats with hot milk, she’d never cooked anything before. This was going to be… uncomfortable. Still, she could probably get Gianna to do most of the cooking, and deduct which kind of ingredients would fit the dish. It would be comical if so much wasn’t at stake.

She motioned for Gianna to lead on, and she did, taking her to the kitchen. Where the magic happened.

“Voilà,” Gianna intoned, sweeping her arms around the kitchen. “I do believe that even for the Gourmet, this facility offers a cornucopia of ingredients and utensils.”

It did. It was a very impressive kitchen. There were spoons, and uh, more spoons. Knives. Ladles. Pots. Pans. Tools she didn’t know. More tools she didn’t know. Oh, and on the other wall, more tools she didn’t know. Right next to the tools she didn’t know, which hung above tools she didn’t know.

“I must say, Gourmet,” Gianna leaned into her, giddy as a college-girl, all her previous nose-in-the-air bearing gone. “I can’t express what an honour it is to prepare the dish of all dishes with you.”

Siari blinked. Uh, what was she supposed to make?

“Why… the Potage Le Magnifique, of course!” Gianna exclaimed. “I mean… you _will_ permit me to be present during its preparation? I would consider it a signal honour to – ”

Siari shut her up with a wave of her hand. _Of course_ she would let her be present. Oblivion, she’d even let Gianna do the work, because she was the only one who could actually make soup that didn’t taste like worn loincloth. But she couldn’t blow her cover now. Gianna would have to do most of the work, if not all, but somehow Siari had to make Gianna come up with the ideas, yet think they came from Siari.

Perhaps… yes, that would work. Siari nodded and motioned to the pot of water already boiling on the fire.

“Will you… not speak to me, Gourmet?”

Ah yes, of course, this woman didn’t know about Siari’s little obstacle when it came to speaking. There was no point coming up with idiot fabrications, so she did what she always did and made a writing motion with her hand.

“Y... you wish to…? Of course, of course.” She pulled open a drawer, searching feverishly for any writable surface, and ended up tearing a blank page out of the recipe booklet. Then she handed Siari a plume and pot of ink with a short bow. “If this is your preferred means of communication, Gourmet…”

Preferred? No. Siari smiled, shook her head and made a chopping motion next to her neck. After an initial puzzled look, Gianna’s eyes went wide with understanding. “Oh forgive me, Gourmet, I had no idea. How dreadful.”

Siari only shrugged and made a throw-away gesture. She’d gotten used to it over the years, after all.

Gianna clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Now then, may I suggest we begin? Forgive me, I am all but trembling with anticipation.” She put her index finger to her lips, thinking. “Now then, I assume we start with the base? Will we be using chicken stock or beef stock? Or perhaps vegetable?”

Dipping the plume in ink, Siari wrote,

_what do you think?_

_impress me_

Gianna read it, and her excitement only grew. “Oh, oh, I see. Hmm, since the Potage Le Magnifique is known to be slightly rich, that rules out vegetable stock.” Her eyes immediately flicked up to Siari’s. “Or does it? Perhaps… No, no, it can’t be vegetable. So beef or chicken.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she mumbled, “Beef or chicken… I’m going to have to guess. Chicken?”

Any guess was just fine to Siari. She gave the cook an encouraging nod, who responded with a relieved release of breath. “So, chicken. Chicken it is.”

Gianna took the stopper from a jar and poured in a large helping of murky brown liquid, which Siari assumed was concentrated chicken stock.

“Now then, the Potage Le Magnifique is at its core, a tomato-based soup, yes?”

If you say so, Gianna.

“I’ve taken the liberty of already preparing the tomatoes. Boiled, peeled and diced.”

How thoughtful of you, Gianna.

In they went. Gianna asked the Gourmet for the next ingredients, and every time, Siari pretended to test her, and every time, Gianna magically got the ingredient right, except the few times she ‘didn’t’, and Siari corrected her just so it wouldn’t seem too suspicious. The soup had been brought to flavour with mudcrab meat, ground Nirnroot, fire salts, a dash of honey, and several other ingredients, all carefully selected by Gianna while Siari leaned on the counter with her arms crossed, enjoying the spectacle. If cooking was always this fun, she’d do it more often.

Eventually, the soup was ready, Siari giving her the nod when Gianna, still fidgeting with enthusiasm, asked if the Potage le Magnifique was, indeed, magnifique.

“Would you… would you like to sample it, Gourmet?” Gianna had a wooden spoon dipped in the kettle. The smell of the soup made her hungry, and it would be inappropriate not to sample one’s own soup, made by one’s own hands, so Siari took the spoon, blew on the hot soup, and with a modest slurp, sampled it.

It was the absolute best soup she’d ever had. She wanted to close her eyes in ecstasy, but it wouldn’t be very convincing if the Gourmet had a culinary orgasm about the soup she’d made so many times before, so she stuck to a modest nod. “Mm.”

“You… you approve?”

She wrote,

_i do_

_certainly a laudable effort_

_well done gianna_

“Oh Gourmet,” Gianna fawned. “Surely I was but your servant doing the legwork. All the inspiration, all the balancing of ingredients, all the vision was yours.”

Glad you think so, Gianna.

There was one more thing, though. The ‘secret ingredient’. Since this Gianna person was so gullible, Siari wouldn’t even have to add it clandestinely. She held up a finger, produced the vial of viscous black liquid from her robe and took the stopper out.

“Ah,” Gianna exclaimed. “A secret ingredient! I know better than to ask what it is, even though I’m burning with curiosity.”

With a mysterious smile, Siari emptied the vial into the soup. If Gianna was lucky, she’d never experience just what it was that made this particular potage so magnifique. She reached for the wooden spoon, but Siari stopped her, placing her fingers on Gianna’s wrist. Woman, you are _not_ ruining everything by dying on me now, before the Emperor’s had his fill.

“What’s wrong? Am I not worthy to…?”

Siari quickly wrote,

_secret ingredient must settle_

_takes time_

_ruins the taste if sampled too early_

“Oh, I _see_ ,” Gianna exclaimed. “Gosh, you are so full of mysteries, Gourmet!”

Not really. That any ‘secret ingredient’ in soup made for the Emperor was doubtless a poison was no mystery unless you were a gullible, star-struck cook with only half a functioning brain.

“Shall I… shall I announce that the Potage Le Magnifique is ready to be enjoyed by the Emperor?”

Siari nodded and wrote,

_give secret ingredient fifteen minutes to settle_

To make it more convincing, she added,

_no more_

_no less_

_then serve_

_i will wait for you at the banquet_

That should do it. Give her enough time to put her leathers on under her frock, so she could make her escape when it was time. Sithis, that would be the hard part. Getting out of there when she was the prime suspect. Then again, she didn’t need to get close to the Emperor or perform any more deeds to accomplish the assassination. All she needed was for the Emperor to have a nice spoonful of magnificent soup. If she made sure she was far enough away from the guards when the Emperor started spluttering, she’d be able to make a clean getaway. Hopefully. Her heart beat fast in her chest.

“Very well, Gourmet. It has been _such_ an honour working with you,” Gianna gushed. “I look forward to seeing the Emperor delight in your culinary arts.”

Siari gave her a nod, then proceeded towards the banquet. When she came out of the kitchen, two guards were, predictably, posted in the corridor to provide security and make sure no unauthorized persons came through. Siari had no doubt the whistles hanging from chains around their necks could summon a small army instantly, if need be. She played it cool and presented her writ.

“Ah, the Gourmet,” one of the guards said, reading the paper. “Hadn’t expected you to be so young.”

Yeah, she got that a lot.

“I’ll need to search you before you go in. Strictly protocol, you understand.”

Neither of the soldiers seemed to be the lecherous type, but still, letting an unknown man touch her was an experience she was not prepared to enjoy. She cocked her head and made an impatient face.

“Oh, of course,” the guard realized. “Crixus, go get Selea, she’s just downstairs.”

The other guard nodded, jogged off, and after a few uncomfortable silent moments in the corridor with just Siari and the soldier, a female guard came up the stairs, visibly annoyed at having to move, and did a thorough but unenthusiastic body search. Good thing she hadn’t tried to bring a knife in, because the woman, despite her bothered behaviour, searched her so methodically Siari was surprised she didn’t put on a leather glove with an oiled forefinger before declaring her safe.

“She’s clean.”

The first soldier smiled and motioned towards the corridor behind him. “Be welcome, Gourmet. Have a wonderful day, hopefully without unpleasant surprises.”

Huh? What did he just say? Siari was momentarily off balance from the remark, but she couldn’t drop her cover now. Blinking, she proceeded down the corridor. What in Oblivion had that guy meant? Was it just an innocent remark, or…?

Regardless, she’d come this far, no way back. She took a breath and felt the air come out in trembling cadence. Closing her eyes, she quelled her nervousness as best she could, then proceeded to the royal water closet. This was past the security check, so no one would notice if she wore Brotherhood leathers underneath her robe. As Astrid’s notes had suggested, she found her leather, packed behind a false panel in the custodian’s cupboard. She quickly donned it and threw her robe over it. The garment was made so it could be easily torn off, with only a few strips keeping it together at her back, making for a quick and easy way to remove any impediments to her escape.

Not much time. This was do or die. She strode towards the banquet hall, high up in the castle’s donjon, up and up the winding staircase. Thankfully, there were no nobles or royals whose paths she crossed, and she could proceed to the banquet hall without uncomfortable or dangerous encounters.

“Ah! The Gourmet,” the soldier at the door welcomed her. This one wore different armour than the Solitude palace guard, a red and black breastplate with the insignia of an eye inside a diamond on it. The Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s personal protectors, whose second-in-command she’d launched off a bridge and down to his death at the foot of a waterfall in Markarth. At his flank was a Bosmer soldier clad in the same armour, with striking straight blonde hair. “Such an honour to see you. My colleague here is a great admirer of yours. Isn’t that right, Roëlaï?”

“Most certainly,” the Bosmer confirmed. “I find your recipe for slaughterfish dumplings especially visionary. Not every chef would dare to employ slaughterfish meat.”

She made a curtsy, smiling broadly at the two guards, then pointed at the door with a questioning look.

“Of course, of course. The banquet is ready, all in attendance are waiting for you to grace them with your presence.”

The blonde mer opened the door for her and she proceeded through.

She had to swallow as she saw the occupants of the banquet hall, high in the donjon. There were several nobles, one of them Jarl Elisif the Fair. Astrid would be disappointed, she wasn’t a troll with pig-ears, but a stunningly gorgeous woman. But the nobles weren’t the most important attendees. Flanked by a high-ranking member of the Penitus Oculatus, a man with dark rings under his eyes and poorly combed brown hair, sat her target, Emperor Titus Mede, an old man, his head smoothly shaved while his grey beard was long and immaculately groomed. He wore a gorgeous blue cloak, trimmed with fur that looked so soft Siari wanted to touch it. Underneath was a red and gold garment, spotless and clearly woven by the best tailor Nirn had to offer. The Imperial dragon crest was emblazoned on the chest. This was the Emperor alright. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“Now that the Gourmet is here, the banquet is officially complete,” the Emperor announced, smiling broadly. He didn’t look like a bad sort. But then again, they never did. “I must say, Gourmet, you defy my expectations.” He chuckled. “I had expected a short, balding Breton with a pot belly and a red, sweaty face, but instead, we are joined by quite the charming presence indeed.”

Even though the compliment was undeserved and not even meant for her, Siari did feel herself turning red.

“Your modesty is refreshing, Gourmet, but unnecessary. Do you know that in all these years, I have never had the pleasure of sampling your Potage le Magnifique? I look forward to rectifying this grievous error in judgment today.”

Gianna stood to the side, smiling broadly and giving her a supportive wink. The Penitus Oculatus officer sitting next to the Emperor was far less friendly, giving her a look of outright suspicion, and even hostility. But Siari supposed mistrusting people was part of his job.

“Have I upset or offended you in any way, my dear?” the Emperor (the _Emperor!_ ) asked, his concern actually looking genuine. “I do hope your silence does not mean discomfort or reservation on your part?”

Siari hastily shook her head.

“That is a relief, but in that case, do not be afraid to speak. I may be the Emperor, but I’m just a normal person like you. Please, do not feel intimidated or inhibited. Indeed, it is I who should be awed. I was born an Emperor through no merit of my own, but your cooking requires dedication, skill, vision, hard work. You are the one we should be admiring.”

Siari could do nothing more than make the same chopping motion next to her neck.

Gianna, thankfully, leaned in and whispered, “My Lord Emperor, forgive me… the Gourmet is not able to speak. She is a mute.”

“Ah!” the Emperor exclaimed. “I see. For a minute there I thought you were threatening to behead me.” He laughed loudly, seeming to honestly enjoy himself. Siari actually liked the man. Not enough to blow the whole plan for him, nowhere near, but still. She’d expected some puffed-up, pompous wind bag, but it turned out the Emperor of Cyrodiil was a pleasant, down-to-earth fellow. So much the better for him, Siari supposed, but the plan was in motion and would not be stopped.

“Now then,” the Emperor declared, wringing his hands. “I look forward to your Potage le Magnifique. Please, my dear Gourmet, do me the honour of your first serving.”

He held out his deep plate, a magnificent piece of porcelain, crisp white and trimmed with gold. The plate alone looked to be worth more than any Dark Brotherhood contract. With a nervous bow, she sploshed a ladleful of potage in the plate, realizing painfully well how unprofessional she must look doing it. She set the plate of poisoned soup before the Emperor, then backed away. He didn’t employ a sampler, or at least, didn’t have one with him now. The Gourmet must be of a great reputation indeed to be trusted so implicitly.

The Emperor took in the aroma of the soup with closed eyes. “I must say, I am tempted to throw all my dignity out the window and pour this miraculous creation straight down my gullet.”

A balcony door was open on the far side of the banquet hall, to provide fresh air. That was her means of escape. There were no soldiers there, only a few noble poofs she could easily evade. From the balcony, she’d find a spot to jump to. There had to be turrets or ledges nearby, even at this dizzying height.

“I shall use a spoon instead,” the Emperor laughed, several nobles laughing with him.

Siari held her breath as the Emperor’s spoon dipped in the red, steaming soup, and came back up.

_Come on, eat it. Eat it._

He took another whiff of the aroma, Siari’s heart beating so hard she was afraid her eyes would pop out of their sockets.

And then he did it. His beard and moustache parted, and in went the spoon. Sithis, this was really happening! The Dark Brotherhood had just assassinated the _Emperor_. She’d done it, she’d done it.

“Mm. Gourmet,” the Emperor announced with a broad smile, “You have truly outdone yourself.”

You have no idea.

Still, nothing happened so far. No choking, no hand on his belly, no surprised, pained look. Alright, so the poison was not so fast-acting. That was fine. It would give her more time to get away.

“Tell me, my Emperor,” the man sitting next to her mark suddenly spoke, his upper lip pulled back. “Did you notice any… unusual flavours?”

What? What was going on here? Siari’s throat went instantly dry.

“Mm,” the Emperor thought, sampling the aftertaste in his mouth. “There was… a flavour I did not expect, indeed. Sweet, somehow. Not truly in touch with the others.” A short silence as the Emperor looked at the ceiling, his mouth moving. “Liquorice root?”

The man next to the Emperor made a triumphant, hateful grin. “Guards! Arrest that woman!”

_What in Oblivion…_

Siari’s eyes flashed over the faces in front of her. The Emperor’s look was puzzled and surprised, but the Penitus Oculatus soldier rose, drawing his short sword. Gianna, too, had a glare of pure hate on her face.

Oh no. Oh shit, they knew. They knew.

“Commander, what is going on here?”

“This young lady,” he growled the word between his teeth, as if he wanted to call her something else entirely, but not in the presence of his Emperor, “is an assassin sent by the Dark Brotherhood.”

Siari felt like she was going to wet and shit herself at the same time.

“Or at least,” he snarled, stepping towards her, “a would-be assassin.”

“Calm now,” the Emperor said. Behind her, Siari could feel guards closing in. “Before we do anything rash, I would like an explanation. She has nowhere to go, so please, let us deal with this in a dignified manner.”

The Commander’s face was a mask of hatred, but he remained where he was.

“Commander Maro?” the Emperor said calmly. “Please explain what is going on here.”

“This… _woman_ is an assassin, like I said,” the Commander growled between gritted teeth. “She was sent here to poison you, posing as the Gourmet, whom you have doubtless murdered, haven’t you, _creature_?”

Siari couldn’t speak. She wouldn’t have been able to speak even if she’d been able to. Tears came to stand in her eyes, troubling her vision. How did they know? _How did they know?_

“I can see what you want to ask,” the man said with a broad, evil grin. “But you’ll never know.”

“So if I understand this correctly,” the Emperor asked, still not understanding, “you knew of an assassination attempt and just let it happen?”

“Of course not, my Lord Emperor. We were uncertain of the veracity of our source, and didn’t want to implicate the real Gourmet, so we swapped her bottle of poison with liquorice root extract. The worst she could do was make the soup taste funny.’

“You’re not the only ones who’ve got quick hands, _murderer_ ,” Gianna bit at her. Oh Sithis, she’d been thinking she had Gianna fooled, and all the time, it had been the other way around.

“Child?” the Emperor asked, his voice filled with genuine, sincere disappointment. “Is this true?”

Siari could only lower her head. She’d failed. The Emperor was alive and well. She’d poisoned him with liquorice. She was a failure, a disgrace. But how? Why? How had they known? There was only one possibility, but Siari refused to consider it. She didn’t dare to.

“Now, men, take her into custody. You were caught red-handed, so no trial is needed. I’ll see you kick at the end of a rope.”

“Perhaps we needn’t be so harsh,” the Emperor said gently, stopping the advancing bodyguards with a raise of his hand. “Perhaps we’re simply dealing with a lost child, indoctrinated and misguided. After all, she has committed no murder. I yet live, and no real harm has been done.”

“On the contrary, my Lord Emperor,” the Penitus Oculatus leader said back. “She has committed at least three murders. That of two Penitus Oculatus members, and of my second-in-command. _My son_.”

It was the truth. Siari knew it, and so did the Emperor. With a heavy sigh, he said, “In that case, child, I can do nothing for you. No amount of mercy can absolve you of this.” He sighed again. “Take her, men.”

The two door guards and Commander Maro advanced on her. It was over. It was best to get caught and be executed rather than suffer the shame of escaping with her failure. If she would even be able to escape.

 _Run, my Listener. There may yet be hope_.

That was…the Night Mother? The Night Mother ordered her to run? But why? Why did she want her to escape? Surely she would not tolerate failure and would consider it Siari’s just desserts to see her caught and executed? What was this?

 _You were betrayed._ _I cannot help you directly and you are not likely to survive, but you must run. You must seize what little chance you have._

“Grab her!”

Siari tore her dress off, and in the same movement, launched herself to the side past the two door guards. She bounded over the table, aided by her enchanted boots, and leapt between two surprised nobles, to the balcony. The feathered hat bounced off her head.

“Hold your bowstrings, I want her alive! No easy death for her!” she heard Maro shout.

She leapt over the balcony, down to the bridge below her, which connected the donjon to the guard tower. The bridge itself was suspended high above the ground, stretching to the guard tower at the edge of the city, rising up from the riverbank. She landed deftly, but even then, the impact sent a painful shock through her ankles and shins.

She ran, hearing boots come down behind her. The Penitus Oculatus had to climb carefully, unaided by magickal boots, but they would come nonetheless. She ran to the end of the bridge, to the door to the guard tower, hoping through her tears that it was somehow empty.

Skidding to a halt where the door was, she closed her fingers around the handle and pulled.

Barred from the other side, the door did not budge.

No, no, _no!_

“End of the line, kid.”

She turned to see the three Penitus Oculatus members advancing on her.

_I am sorry, my Listener. I have failed you._

Short swords drawn, the Emperor’s bodyguards stood before her.

“I bet you wonder how we knew you were coming, don’t you?” Maro grinned. “Since my Lord Emperor isn’t here now, I suppose I can explain before I slowly gut you during a... botched apprehension attempt. I’d explain during the process, but you wouldn’t be able to hear me over your own screams.”

Siari stood, unarmed, her back to the door. The blonde Bosmer had an arrow pointed at her forehead.

“You were indeed betrayed. By someone who wanted to get rid of you very badly. She made me promise to throw you in jail for the rest of your days, but I’ve decided to wipe my boot on that promise.”

So it was true. Astrid had betrayed her. Siari had suspected her of treachery, but she’d never known she’d do this. Oh, Astrid. Her heart broke when she thought of her ‘mother’ and the way it had come this far, that she’d sell her out, and the entire Brotherhood, to the Empire just to be rid of her. What had they done to each other? How could they both have let it come this far?

“You murdered my son, and your death will be slow and painful. And speaking of promises, there’s another one I’m going to conveniently forget about. The one I made to your leader about not coming after them. After you’re dead, either disembowelled right here or swinging bare-assed from the gallows, I’m going to assemble my soldiers and smoke out your entire Sacntuary. Right near Falkreath, isn’t it?”

_Do not give him the pleasure, my Listener._

But what could she do? She was trapped, nowhere to go. She didn’t want to die, but if she had to, she didn’t want it to be by this man’s hand.

_Don’t let them take you._

Maro closed in on her, his shortsword drawn. The hateful snarl on his face told her enough. He would murder her slowly and painfully.

Closing her eyes, she lifted her foot, placed it on the battlements on the side of the bridge, and hoisted herself up on them.

The wind buffeted her face, making her fringe dance playfully and sending the tears from her eyes in streaks around the side of her face. The depth was dizzying, the river water lapping against the rocks at the base of the guard tower. Her knees trembled below her.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Maro snorted. “You don’t have the guts. Stop making a fool of yourrself. Come down from there and make it easy on me.”

Perhaps she might survive the drop. If she leapt far enough, she might land in the water. At that height, it would be the same as smashing into actual rock, but staying here was certain death. Her knees shook so hard they knocked together and without realizing, she stuck her knuckle in her mouth in terror.

“Don’t make me come get you,” Maro threatened, coming even closer and holding out his hand to grab her. “You’re only making it worse for yourself. We both know you won’t jump.”

_Forgive me, my Listener. I have failed you._

“Come here, damn it!”

Siari closed her eyes, took a breath, looked down at the slowly flowing river water, a hundred metres below. If the fall didn’t kill her outright, she would simply drown, unconscious. But letting him take her was an even worse fate. It only took a little bit of courage. Just a little. Just a little bit of courage right now to spare her unspeakable torture later.

Just a little bit of courage.

Pushing the tears from her eyes, she swung her arms back, then launched herself over the edge, her enchanted boots propelling her over, in the direction of the water.

“Shoot her!”

The next moment, a sharp shock blasted through her shoulder, hitting her in mid-air and sending her body into a spiral as it fell, plummeting so fast down to the water that her breath was cut off.

She didn’t scream, didn’t wail, just accepted her end, resigning to the fact that it would all end her, her mission failed, the Dark Brotherhood failed, the Night Mother failed. She’d let everyone down, betrayed by her mother and by her nonchalant assumption that everything was fine right up to the end.

Her body twisted in the air, her fall completely out of her control, with no way to correct it. She’d land flat on the water, the surface smashing the life from her. She’d wash up downstream as a torn sack of ruptured guts and snapped bones, her eyes eaten and skin gnawed by the fish, a snapped arrow shaft still sticking from her rotting shoulder. At least she’d die quickly compared to what those soldiers on the bridge would have done to her.

The water came closer, and she closed her eyes, spinning through the air. The last thing she realized was that maybe, if she’d been more alert, if she’d allowed those difficult, exhausting feelings to tell her what she needed to hear, if she hadn’t chosen the easy way of just suppressing her emotions deep down, she could have given Astrid some reassurance, some understanding, some daughterly love, and it would never have come this far.

If only she’d listened to those feelings instead of just quashing them when they rose. They had been her allies, not her enemies, and she paid for that mistake now. It was only fair.

She got what she deserved.

Then her body struck the water. Briefly, for a moment even shorter than the blink of an eye, she felt the shock, the bones breaking and the organs tearing, and then nothing.

 


	57. Touching the Sky

  **.**

**ROË**

**Touching the Sky**

**Castle Volkihar, main gate**

 

“About Oblivion-damned time you got here,” Roë hissed at Serana. “I was starting to think you’d run straight to your father.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Serana snapped back. “Why would I side with him? All he wants to do is – ”

“I know,” Roë cut her off. “We have to go before he finds out we’ve left.”

Serana crossed her arms and looked at Roë and her two companions. “ _These_ are your allies, then? These two?”

“And what of it, Serana?”

“Look at them, Roë,” Serana shouted, sweeping a hand out at the two Vampires outside the gates, standing out of earshot at the other end of the bridge. “One’s a… a herb-masher who hasn’t left the castle in ages, and the other’s too burned to even stand upright!”

Garen Marethi had only spent a few hours in the sun pit, and his burns were only superficial, but Fura had been in there for several days now, and she stood hunched over, shivering and hugging herself from the pain, a cloak wrapped around her body and a hood over her face. She looked like a tiny, cloak-wrapped ball of pain.

“Fura’ll get better when we find her some live prey, and Garen, well… without Garen we wouldn’t have the truth serum, and without the truth serum, we wouldn’t have the Scroll, so there’s that.”

“Just don’t like our damn chances,” Serana hissed, bringing her face close to Roë.

“Well it’s the only chance we’ve got,” she said back. “Or do you want to wait until your father strings you up and slices you open?”

Serana was quiet, looking away, her jaw working. “Forget it,” she grunted. “Let’s just get this done. Maybe with the Bow, we’ll have a _semblance_ of a chance.”

“Remember, Serana,” Roë said. “He has every reason to let us go and succeed, even if he knows we’ll come back to challenge him. After all, we know where the Bow is. He doesn’t.”

“You don’t either,” Serana grunted. “ _I_ know where it is.”

It had taken all her energy to stand up to Serana, to go against the love in her heart, and she had no more left. She could only sigh and lower her head. “Serana, I can’t do this anymore. Look. I _swear_ I won’t betray you. I need you on my side in this. Please.”

Serana looked at her, not concealing her suspicion. “You swear that now, but if push comes to shove, then…”

“Serana. I won’t betray you.” Her heart tore again when she had to admit, “How could I? With everything you know, _how could I_?”

Shouldering past Roë, Serana walked across the bridge, telling her, “Oblivion hath no fury like a woman spurned, Roë.”

Spurned. Did she have to use that word? Did she want to rub it in? To make it extra painful? Or did she just use it to remind herself that Roë was inferior? That she’d had the luxury, the station, the _position_ to reject her? Than she was better than her? Because people could mask rejection with all sorts of reasons, but in the end, it only had one: she simply wasn’t good enough for her.

With a heavy heart, Roë went after Serana.

The walk was silent and miserable. Garen and Fura didn’t say a word, just biting their pain. Serana had no pain to bite, but no words to say either. They stuck to the Northern edge of Skyrim, and the howling wind felt like it cut straight through their clothes and skins. After an hour or two, Roë had to support Fura to keep her from collapsing where she walked. The smaller Vampire stank of burned flesh. Another hour later, they arrived at a cave, a good place to take shelter until dawn.

“One thing,” Serana bit through clenched teeth. “Everyone sleeps, and everyone keeps their distance from each other. I see one of you coming close, and I won’t be held responsible for the consequences.”

Roë wanted nothing more than to curl up against Serana, but the warning was very clear. If she was honest with herself, Roë thought that if she and Serana were ever to come to blows, Roë had more than the chops to take her on. With the power of the Vampire Lady, further amplified by the Bloodstone Chalice, very little, save the Daedra Princes and Harkon himself, could stand against her. But that was all moot. She could never hurt Serana anyway.

Hugging her knees and shivering, Fura said the first words she’d said since she’d been out of the sun pit. “Don’t be s… stupid,” came the words from underneath the hood. “Y… you’re the only one who… knows where th… the Bow is.”

“She’s right,” Garen agreed. “Even if we were backstabbing traitors, _which we aren’t_ , you’d have little to fear from us now, Lady Serana.”

Roë wrapped herself in her cloak, and old and useless human habit since she had no body warmth to retain, and lay down to sleep. “You’ve heard them. You’re safe, Serana. Not just because you’re the only one who knows where the Bow is, but also, and more so, because we have no intention of betraying you.”

“I’ll still be sleeping with one eye open, you’ll understand,” Serana simply said.

“Do whatever you want.” Roë turned her back to her and closed her eyes. It took a while to get to sleep, with Fura’s occasional pained whines, but eventually, it was dusk again and they all rose, wrapped themselves in their cloaks again and walked on. When Fura was unable to keep walking, Roë cut her own wrist open with her shortsword and shared some of her energy. Silently, Serana laid three dead rabbits at their feet and walked away again.

Atmosphere was like the temperature, well below freezing point, but the rabbits and Roë’s blood had given Fura at least a little bit of strength back, and she was able to walk unassisted for the entire travel, until they came to a rock face and Serana told them this was the place.

“I’m not going to say ‘but it’s just a rock face’, because I’m sure there’s a secret entrance somewhere, but…”

Serana ignored her, facing the sheer rock, and muttered something incomprehensible.

They all stood waiting for a few seconds, before a low rumbling sounded and part of the rock face descended into the floor, revealing a doorway into a subterranean tunnel.

“This isn’t just a hole in the ground,” Serana told the others, without turning around. “Mind your manners here, and let me do the talking.”

Roë rolled her eyes behind Serana’s back.

They descended into the cavern, some needing a little more help than others, but apart from small frostbite spiders that didn’t present much of a threat, they encountered nothing. The cavern went deeper and deeper down, until even their vampiric sight had trouble penetrating the darkness. Just as Roë thought of suggesting they might light a torch in spite of Fura’s and Garen’s newfound fear of fire (and her own), there was light all the way down, a small pinprick that grew larger and larger as they came closer.

“What is…” Roë began.

“Shh. I said I’d do the talking. Be quiet.”

Roë shut up, setting her jaw.

They descended in silence and at the bottom of the cave, they found an arch where the light came from. Passing under it, they saw a strange altar with a kneeling statue in front of it, on its knees, its hands held up to the ceiling.

Wait, not a statue… Roë could see the body breathing, ever so slightly. It was a mer with an Elvish build, clad in strange white, almost translucent armour. His frizzy hair was the same, so white it looked almost transparent.

Serana came to stand behind him and cleared her throat.

Slowly, the arms came down, and then, with a laboured grunt, the mer got to one knee. Pulling himself to his feet, he slowly turned. He was indeed Elven, but not like any Roë had ever seen. Too pale to be Bosmer, too short to be Altmer. His facial features were sharply chiselled, even more so than Dunmer, making him look like he was sculpted from icy stone.

“It has… been a while,” the man croaked, steadying himself on the altar. It was a knee-high foundation, with in the middle a shining golden statue on a pedestal. The shape on top looked like a whirling sun. She knew the symbol, but…

“I’d wager quite a few years,” Serana said back.

The mer chuckled. “Indeed, although time progresses… differently here. My name is Knight-Paladin Gelebor, and this… is the chantry of Auri-El.”

Auri-El? The Sun God? Roë had heard of him, but she didn’t know there were still chantries dedicated to him. All the people on Tamriel now worshipped his more modern denomination, Akatosh, instead.

“Knight-Paladin Gelebor, I am Serana of Coldharbour, and this is Roë, Fura and Garen. We are here for… well, you know why we’re here.”

“Indeed,” the white-haired mer said with a nod.

Serana had told everyone to shut up and let her do the talking, but Roë was no longer her servant, her bodyguard, her lap dog. “Can I…? Umm, you look Elven, but not like any mer I’ve ever seen.”

Serana’s eyes flashed, furious, but the mer chuckled. “No, I wager I don’t. I see the Bosmer are still well represented on Nirn,” he nudged his chin at Garen Marethi, “and Dunmer, but my kind… there are only two of us left. You know of our corrupted, feral kin, though.” His face turned disgusted. “The Falmer.”

Garen Marethi stepped forward. “Then you are… the original Falmer?”

“The Snow Elves?” Roë asked. “The world thinks you were extinct hundreds of years ago, even before the Dwemer. How…?”

He chuckled again. “The world is correct. Our race is extinct, though two of us still remain. For all intents and purposes, the noble race of Falmer ended long ago. Destroyed by our foul, twisted descendants.”

“Yes,” Serana said, trying to sound patient. “This is all fascinating, but… the Bow?”

“The Bow,” the mer echoed with a nod, laboriously sitting down on the pedestal’s base. “Indeed.”

“I’ve got a feeling,” Fura said quietly, in her nasal voice and strange (slightly Breton?) dialect, “that this other remaining Snow Elf’s going to be involved in this somehow.”

A wheezing, coughing laugh came from the Snow Elf. “You would be correct. The other remaining Snow Elf, Arch-Curate Vyrthur, is my brother. He was corrupted by the Falmer during their final attack, which left only us alive as the remaining Snow Elves. After the attack… his behaviour changed. He turned away from Auri-El and became… I’m not sure what, but he always stands in one place, watching, waiting. And while I grew old, he has not aged a day, or he hadn’t last time I saw him.”

“Alright,” Roë said, “So what do you want us to do?”

“He holds the Bow,” Gelebor explained, as though it was obvious. “It must be taken from him, for he intends to use it for… dark ends. Of that I am certain.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants to use it for,” Serana said flatly. “If we don’t get a hold on it, it’ll be used to end Auriel’s influence on this world forever. It will black out the sun, forever.”

The mer lowered his head, his age-drawn face filled with resignation. “It is as I feared then. You must travel to Auriel’s Chapel and retrieve the Bow. I know not what has possessed my brother if not the Falmer taint, but he must be stopped. Please, complete the path of the Initiates, to receive Auri-El’s blessing, and return to me. I will transport you to – ”

“Path of the Initiates?” Serana asked. “That sounds like it’ll take a lot of work. And a lot of time, which we don’t have.”

“I’m afraid this is how it must be.” He pointed to a vase-shaped pitcher of shining gold, which stood on the far end of the pedestal. “You must travel to the five wayshrines of Auri-El, and dip the pitcher in the basin of each. As the Initiates have done.”

Serana blinked. “So these Initiates had to lug around a heavy pitcher of water? How long? How far are those wayshrines? What’s the point of carrying around a heavy ewer full of water all this time?”

“Well,” the mer explained, “Once the Initiate’s enlightenment was complete, he’d bring the ewer to the Chantry’s Inner Sanctum. Pouring the water into the sacred basin of the Sanctum would allow him to enter for an audience with the Arch-Curate himself.”

With an incredulous laugh, Serana said, “All this just to end up dumping it out? Makes no sense to me.”

For wanting to do the talking, Serana sure was being undiplomatic to say the least.

“It’s symbolic,” the Knight-Paladin grunted. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“So let’s get this straight,” Serana said, crossing her arms. “We need to do all this nonsense to get into the temple, so we can kill your brother and claim Auriel’s Bow?”

Still sitting on the pedestal, the aged mer nodded gravely. “If you fail, the consequences could be tragic. You must have the blessing of – ”

They didn’t have time for this. If this snow eater could transport them to where his brother was, then by the Daedra, he had better transport them. “Look,” Roë said, out of patience, “We need Auriel’s Bow, and we need it now. We don’t have the time to go traipsing all the way across Nirn for a few pints of spring water. There are others seeking the Bow, and if they reach it before we do, then you, me, everyone on this world is in big trouble.” Especially Serana. Roë hadn’t forgotten what Harkon would do to her. She thought about it every single minute. “We _have_ to get into the Sanctum _now_.”

“But…” the Snow Elf protested. “The risks... Without the blessing of Auri-El – ”

“Auriel will see what we’re trying to do here. He’ll be more than happy to see us reclaim the Bow,” Serana interrupted. She apparently had no objections to Roë talking now. “Transport us to the Chapel already. This whole path of the Initiates thing stinks of unnecessary time-wasting to make this whole thing last longer.”

“Sure does,” Fura agreed. “This is what they call ‘padding’.”

He sat there, thinking.

“Gelebor,” Serana insisted. “We really don’t have time for this. Auriel will understand.”

“Very well,” he conceded at last, with a long, ragged sigh. “I will transport you to the Chapel.” He went to his feet and grabbed Serana by her short cape. “But you must succeed. If my brother should prevail – ”

“We will,” Serana said. “We’re not pushovers, trust me.”

“Fura, you’re too injured for this. Garen, watch over her,” Roë commanded, “Wait here for us. We’ll take care of this Arch-Curate fellow.” Roë could see the suspicion in Serana’s eyes, but all it did was anger her. She could never hurt Serana and she wished the damn woman would just accept that already. “Go on, Gelebor. Send us to the Chapel.”

Gelebor spread his arms, then raised them above his head, and a bright yellow light enveloped Roë and Serana. “Don’t be alarmed, you’ll have a strange sensation, but it’s only displacement. You might feel a little…”

The rest of his words were inaudible as Roë and Serana felt as if they were on a cart that hit a pothole. The next moment, they were somewhere else.

“… bump?” Roë finished Gelebor’s sentence.

“Mm,” Serana only answered.

The place they were in was an ice cold natural cavern, long and high, with mer-made structures here and there, thick hexagonal columns that held up the ceiling, jutting stalagmites protruding diagonally upwards from both of the sides, making them feel like they were standing in the maw of a great beast… and in front of them, forming a silent throng that was placed and hewn so it looked like they were advancing on the far end of the cave, were ice statues, the poses more lifelike than any Roë had ever seen. They must have been made by a master sculptor.

All the statues looked like they were converging on the end of the corridor, where, elevated above a short rise of steps, stood a throne. Another mer sat on it, slouched with his legs crossed, slowly opening his eyes, as if he’d been deep in thought until his sanctuary was invaded.

“Arch-Curate Vyrthur?” Serana called out.

The mer stirred, sitting up straight. He looked far less impeded by age than his brother, moving with little effort or pain. “Finally you approach, Daughter of Coldharbour. You’ve kept me waiting.”

Serana blinked. “Y… you were expecting me?”

He rose, chuckling mirthlessly. “Not you specifically, but a Daughter of Coldharbour any Daughter of Coldharbour.”

Serana and Roë approached the throne, with Roë’s eyes constantly being drawn to the statues of gangly, ugly creatures with pointy ears, weapons drawn, looking like they would converge on the throne and the person on it, and tear it apart if given life.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” Vyrthur asked, and Roë knew the question was intended for her. “Worry not, they are quite harmless.”

“I don’t know,” Roë muttered. “Experience and stories have told me that statues always become animated sooner or later.”

“Not these,” he said, striding down the stairs like a king surveying his kingdom. “And statues? I think not. This is all that remains of the Falmer who nearly drove our race to extinction. Frozen until the end of times.”

Wait, these were people? Or at least living, sentient things? Roë looked closely at the statue next to her and saw that, indeed, it wasn’t an ice sculpture, but a monstrous humanoid encased in a thin layer of ice.

“Their internal organs remain fresh and alive in their prison of ice. They will all go equally mad as the aeons pass, praying for the forgiving release of death. A fitting punishment for genocide, wouldn’t you agree?”

Roë felt her stomach turn. How long had these creatures suffered here? Years? Centuries? No matter what they’d done, this was a truly horrendous fate, terrible beyond imagining. Even trying to imagine the horror of what she saw felt like it would drive her mad. She saw the same revulsion on Serana’s face.

“We’ve come for the Bow,” Serana simply said. It was indeed best to shift the topic of conversation to something less gruesome. She held out her hand. “Give it to us, Vyrthur.”

“Oh I know why you’re here,” he chuckled, walking around his little kingdom, parading almost. “But I’m not giving you anything. It’s almost comical how you think you’re here because you want to be.”

What the… what was this all of a sudden? It had sounded like he’d been expecting them from the start, and that had been strange in itself, but it was just getting more and more weird.

“I _am_ here because I want to be, Vyrthur,” Serana said, unperturbed. “You may have been a powerful priest, but I was here even before you were born. Now give us the Bow. I’m not going to ask again.”

His demeanour shifted, going from gleeful to indignant. “How dare you. I was the Arch-Curate of Auri-El, _girl_! I had the ears of a _god_!” he bit at her, circling her like a wolf did his prey.

Serana sounded unimpressed. “Yes, yes, until the Falmer, the Betrayed, corrupted you. We’ve heard your story from your brother.”

Another shift, back to gloating. He laughed, “Gelebor and the others are easily manipulated fools. You think the Betrayed corrupted _me_? Look into my eyes, Daughter of Coldharbour. You know what I am.”

Reluctantly, Serana stared in his eyes. Roë’s hand went to her shortsword, ready to draw it and intervene if necessary, but Vyrthur merely met her gaze and let her come to the realization he wanted her to have.

“Y… you’re a Vampire?”

“You recognize your own kind, do you?”

Daedra damn it, she was right. Now that she knew what he was, Roë saw it too, the illusion falling away and his blazing, bright red eyes clearly visible. But if he was a Vampire… then none of this made sense. And also… “But if you were infected with Vampirism, then surely Auriel must have protected you?” she asked, not understanding. Auriel was the sun god, he’d do whatever it took to help his Arch-Curate if he was infected by the illness that was anathema to his portfolio. And for Auriel, it would be very little effort indeed.

“The moment I was infected by one of my Initiates,” Vyrthur said, angry, but not at Roë or Serana, “Auri-El turned his back on me. He saw my infection as betrayal, as weakness, or simply as unclean, I don’t know. But he cast me out, banishing me from his sight. My powers, my station, my life, all gone. And so I swore I’d have my revenge, no matter the cost.”

Serana chortled, crossing her arms. “You want to take revenge… on a god?”

“It’s not as difficult as you think,” Vyrthur snapped, holding up a finger. “Auri-El himself was beyond my reach, but not his influence on this world. It took me a long time, a lot of rituals, a lot of pleas to dark entities, but now that you’re here, I have all I need.”

“What exactly are you talking about?” Roë asked, dreading the answer. “What _do_ you need?”

“I already have Auri-El’s own weapon, his Bow. All I require now is the blood of a Vampire. But not just any Vampire.”

Serana and Roë realized it at the same time. “Wait…” Serana stammered. “The blood of… It was you? Auriel’s Bow? _You_ created the Prophecy?”

“Indeed,” he said triumphantly. “The prophecy that lacks a single vital ingredient. The blood of one of the first of our kind, the rape trophies of Molag Bal. The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour.”

“You were waiting? All this time?” Serana breathed. “For me to come along?”

“Now do you understand why you’re not here by your will, but mine? All I needed to do was spread rumour of the prophecy. A whisper here, a buried tome there. All set in motion ages upon ages ago, to grow and become first tale, then legend, then prophecy. Even the Elder Scrolls recognized its power.”

“This is… this is insane,” Roë could only say. If what he said was true, he had been plotting this for… not centuries, but millennia. He could even be older than Serana, and she had spent many years in stasis. She thought they’d simply give an old elven priest a good beating and grab the bow from his bloody fingers, but their opponent would be much more than that.

“Well, I’m afraid I’m happy with my blood where it is,” Serana said, fearless. “I intend on keeping it. You may be ancient, but let’s see if your blood is actually powerful instead of just old.”

“I will wring the blood from your lifeless corpse, rape-slave,” Vyrthur snarled, his hands hooking into claws. “I have made sacrifices to powers you cannot even imagine. And I will destroy you both.”

He raised his hands, and the ground shook, massive chunks of ice breaking off the stalactites, flying past their heads to converge on one point, swirling in the air, twisting and spinning around each other, forming strange connections between them, like wispy threads of energy, until they settled on the shape of a hulking, humanoid monstrosity, twice as tall as a human.

“Frost Atronach,” Serana rapped as the thing advanced on them. “But not just any Atronach. This one is more than a lifeless automaton.”

Roë drew her shortsword, as if that would be any help, and awaited the attack. This thing made the ground shake when it walked, and Roë had no doubt that a stomp or smash could flatten them into pulp, and she didn’t think even Serana could survive that.

“Keep it busy,” Serana ordered. “I’ll take care of Vyrthur.”

Great, she got to tangle with the massive, head-squashing monstrosity. She saw Serana rush the Atronach, dodging a sweep of its ice-fist, and then diving right through between its legs, then disappearing as she went for the summoner.

She better kill Vyrthur quick, because against this thing, all Roë could do was dodge, and she knew damn well that sooner or later, the creature would get her. Her shortsword felt puny and useless, but perhaps… perhaps the links where the Atronach’s icy blocks were held together, maybe they could be severed somehow.

The creature had reached her now, the hateful red pinpricks in its icy eye sockets confirming that this wasn’t just some Atronach. Something possessed it, some power, some entity, that Vyrthur had done dark dealings with. She didn’t know what Vyrthur had promised it, but she knew she never would. And it didn’t matter.

With a low roar, the Atronach brought a massive ice foot up, meaning to stomp her flat. The attack was heavily telegraphed, however, and Roë side-stepped the stomp with ease, even though it made the ground shake so hard she had to focus on keeping her balance instead of being able to counter-attack right away.

The golem swung a massive ice fist her way, but she ducked under it and thrust her shortsword forward, finding a spot between two ice blocks near its side. She let her blade go in to the hilt, and then wrenched. The thing roared, rearing up in pain as Roë wrung one of the ice blocks the size of her head free, sending it falling to the cold ground, chips of ice flying off it as it came down.

An ice fist immediately came down in retaliation, and Roë had to leap to the side to avoid getting pulped. She made a roll and came straight to her feet again, because every moment she spent on the ground was one in which the Atronach could stomp her flat.

Again the leg came up, but the Atronach’s size made it slow, and Roë leapt out of the way, the tremors not catching her unaware this time, and she launched herself upward, grabbing hold of the thing’s arm. With a backhanded swing, the Atronach tried to squash her against the cave wall, but Roë was faster, stabbing the thing’s arm and snapping the ice blocks off as the threads of energy tore.

She fell down with the chunks of ice that made up its arm and dodged another retaliatory foot stomp, but just barely. This was getting hairy. Shifting to Vampire Lady form would be pointless as she was a smaller target in her human form, and the Vampire Lady form could presumably be crushed just as dead as her human shape. The thing had no living energies to use her greatest powers on anyway.

Another swing, this one a fist coming down right where she’d stood only moments ago. The thing’s backhanded sweep caught her by surprise, the blow striking her straight in the torso. She could feel her ribs break in excruciating pain as she was lifted off her feet, thrown through the air, and deposited against a frozen Falmer a few metres further. The ice snapped and broke, and the unfortunate creature shattered into body parts, granted the release of death it had been begging for centuries long.

Roë skidded over the ground on her side, smearing Falmer guts as she went, and came to an abrupt stop against the cave wall.

Groaning at her broken ribs and the pain shooting through her torso, knowing the injuries would have easily killed a normal human, she stabbed her shortsword into the icy floor and supporting herself on it, struggled to her feet. No sooner had she regained her footing, swaying from the pain, than the Atronach came barrelling toward her, swinging its remaining arm to crush her with a deadly lunge. Roë threw herself flat again and the fist went over her, shattering another Falmer into bits.

She rolled out of the way of the feet thundering over her, and stabbed her shortsword at the thing’s hip joint with both fists, ignoring the crunching of her broken ribs, catching it between two ice blocks the Atronach tearing its own leg off as it tried to come to a stop. With another roar, it toppled, almost crushing Roë’s legs under it.

She didn’t give it the chance to renew its attacks, rolling over to the back of its head, ignoring the horrible pain as her broken ribs splintered, and rammed the blade right between the head and neck block, twisting it as hard as she could. The Atronach howled and tried to snatch her, bending its massive ice arm behind its back, but before it could get a hold of her, Roë wrenched her shortsword with all her might, and the Atronach’s head flew off with a _crunch-pop_.

The thing’s arm fell down, the ice blocks detaching and tumbling over the rest of its body, the entire thing falling apart with the magicka holding it together now gone.

Holding her ribcage with one hand, Roë lurched to her feet, then staggered off towards Serana, although her presence did not appear to be necessary. Serana had Vyrthur up by his throat, even though her noble garb was streaked with blood and torn in several places. Vyrthur himself had been transfixed with ice spikes, one through his gut, the other through his calf.

“Well,” Serana growled with the exertion. “You got to draw my blood. Shame you won’t get to use it.”

And with that, she hurled Vyrthur through the air, sending him flying towards one of the jutting, frozen spikes of stone, the pure force of Serana’s throw hard enough to impale him on it, the stone spike bursting through his chest in a shower of blood. He gurgled and kicked on the stalagmite, his hands flailing wildly about, then grabbing hold of the spike, pulling desperately at the immovable stone. The blood ran out of him in a grotesque, putrid waterfall, almost black and stinking like pure rot. The deals he had made to his mysterious powers must have taken a terrible toll on him, and would continue to do so after his death.

Serana clearly thought the same, saying, “I think his true suffering has only begun.”

“His problem,” Roë simply said back. “Let’s get that Bow and get out of here.”

Thinking aloud, Serana muttered, “I don’t suppose his blood is drinkable…”

“I wouldn’t try it. We’ll find another way to heal. Are you badly hurt?”

“No,” Serana only said. “Some gashes, nothing that won’t heal.”

_Ask me if I’m alright. Please ask me if I’m alright._

“The Bow’s right there, next to the throne.” Serana walked up to it. “Pretty sure it’s this one. Mostly because it’s the only bow around.” She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, a white and gold longbow of clearly Elven design, with intricate carvings in the whitewood and exceptional smithing in the gold. It gave off a pale yellow light.

“Good,” Roë grunted, hunched over and hugging herself, the tip of her shortsword dragging over the ground. “Now how do we get out of here?”

“No idea,” Serana muttered, looking around and stroking her chin.

“While you look,” Roë said, turning around, “I’ve got something I’ve got to do.”

She left Serana where she was and dragged herself to the frozen Falmer. Despite the pain in her cracked ribs, she struck true and hard, whacking the head off every statue in the chapel. Nothing deserved to be doomed to such unspeakable horror. The neck stumps of the Falmer she beheaded still had dark red, steaming blood bubbling up. This was just gruesome beyond comprehension. She tried to imagine spending centuries trapped in one’s own body and wished she hadn’t.

Another frozen Falmer head fell, and another, all of them spewing fresh, warm blood. Finally the ghastly work was done, and all the Falmer statues were headless.

“When you’re done being charitable,” Serana called out from the other side of the Chapel, “I think I’ve found how to get out.” She stood holding a lever, worked into the stone wall behind the throne.

“So pull it then,” Roë grunted, too quiet for anyone but those with vampiric hearing to understand.

Serana did so, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the Chapel shuddered and the wall on Roë’s side sunk into the ground, the metres-thick stone making way to show a tunnel.

She whirled around to see the surprised faces of Garen Marethi and Fura Bloodmouth looking at them. Gelebor looked far less flat-footed.

“What is…” Garen Marethi stammered. “It was… he was behind this very wall all along?” He stood looking with his jaw slack. “So the only thing standing between you for centuries…?”

“… Was this stone wall, yes,” Gelebor admitted. “I was not only here to guide you. I was also… a jailer of sorts.” The golden sun-statue glowed bright behind him. “The restoration of this wayshrine means that Vyrthur must be dead and the Betrayed have no more power over him.”

Serana walked past Roë, held up the Bow and said, “Well, you’re right about the being dead part, but the ‘Betrayed’ never had any control over him.”

Gelebor blinked, “Wh… what? What are you talking about?”

“It was the other way around,” Roë grunted through her pained ribs. “He was the one controlling them. Your brother was a Vampire.”

“Lady Roë,” Fura asked, concerned. “Are you in pain?”

“It’s alright, I’ll be fine.” The one who’d had to ask, hadn’t.

Gelebor held a hand in front of his mouth, thinking. “I see. That _would_ explain much. And… somehow, deep inside, it brings me joy that the Betrayed weren’t to blame for what happened here. Or at least, not principally.”

“How would that possibly bring you joy?” Fura asked, still hugging her cloak.

“Because,” Gelebor explained, “That means there might still be hope for my kind. Perhaps they could…” his eyes lit up and settled on the golden sun statue, “Perhaps they could one day shed their hatred and learn to believe in Auri-El again. They might one day return to the light.” He sighed, contented. “It’s been a long time since I felt that way and it’s been long overdue. My thanks, to all of you.”

“That’s alright,” Serana said with a shrug. “We came for the Bow, all the rest was gravy.”

His enthusiasm tempered somewhat by Serana’s aloof response. “Yes, yes of course. I cannot think of a worthier champion to wield it than you,” He gave her a short bow, “the one who restored Auri-El’s Chantry. Do not be concerned about arrows. Auri-El will give the Bow arrows of light when it is drawn against the creatures of darkness.”

Yes, of course, Gelebor, by all means just forget about what Roë had done.

“So then,” Serana thought out loud, turning the Bow over in her hands. “This entire Tyranny of the Sun prophecy was the work of Vyrthur, trying to take revenge on Auriel for turning his back on him when he was turned into a Vampire.” She chuckled. “How ironic then that we are now the ones to wield it.”

“Yes,” Gelebor admitted, lowering his head. “How ironic indeed. I know that you too are Vampires. But Auri-El would not have allowed you to wield his Bow if you did not have its blessing. It would seem our God is truly desperate, choosing the lesser of two evils.”

“Blood doesn’t make someone evil,” Roë snapped. “It what we do with the curse we’ve been given that determines who we are.” She noticed Serana giving her a disapproving look from the corner of her eye, but she didn’t care. “There is one last thing we require from you.”

“Certainly,” Gelebor said gravely. “I am your humble servant.”

“Hold out your arm.”

He blinked. “I… I do not…”

“Hold out your arm.”

His breathing sped up and he became visibly nervous. “You wish to… take my blood?”

“Just a little bit,” Roë assured him. “Fura here is in terrible pain, your blood is old and powerful. She won’t need much.”

“But… won’t this…?”

“No,” Serana said, clearly unhappy about the whole thing. “Feeding doesn’t cause infection.”

“Very… very well.” He closed his eyes and held out his arm. Roë nudged her head at Fura, who gingerly closed in, then snapped her jaw shut over his wrist, between the armour and his gauntlet. Her eyes closed, she drank a few greedy gulps, then stopped, pulling back. She was more disciplined than Roë could ever hope to be.

Dizzy, Gelebor sat down on the pedestal swaying from side to side with his eyes closed.

“That’s enough of that,” Serana scolded. “Leave him be now.”

“Feeling better?” Roë asked Fura.

“Significantly so.”

Her skin was still a patchwork of burns, but they had reduced in size and depth somewhat. She had half a mind to take some of Gelebor’s blood too, but the risk of killing was too high. Serana would definitely leave her behind if she killed right in front of her. At best.

Still frowning, Serana said. “Let’s go. I have a father to kill.”


	58. Kindred Judgment

 

 

**Kindred Judgment**

**Outside the Chapel of Auri-El**

 

“You weren’t wrong about this Snow Elf’s blood,” Fura said to Roë as they walked. “I needed this boost for ages.”

“Glad you’re feeling better.” She wasn’t really able to care about Fura right now, but it was a good thing she’d be in good condition to fight soon. They needed all the manpower they could get. And that was if the other vampires in the Castle stayed out of it. They could probably commit their coup and depose Harkon before the other Vampires could intervene, but Modhna would definitely be a problem. They’d have to deal with her.

“Bitch Modhna’s going to pay for stealing my place and my dogs,” Fura muttered fiercely.

Roë certainly hoped so. Serana, meanwhile, had taken off back towards the Castle, walking along with her head down. It was hard to accept, but there would never be a “Roë and Serana”. Not ever. They’d have to deal with the aftermath of the battle with Harkon, provided they’d survive, of course. Would they simply part ways? Who would get ownership of the Castle? It would make sense that Serana was left in charge, after all, it was her family, but then again… Of the two of them, Roë was the Vampire Lady. Serana, her age and power notwithstanding, was… well… just another vampire.

“So what, do we just… storm the front gate?” Fura asked. “or do you have a plan?”

“Not as such,” Roë said, “but I do know there’s a secret entrance that leads to the courtyard. We used ot ti get to the laboratory Serana’s mother used to occupy. That would let us circumvent most of the Castle at least. After that…”

“I thought you could fly in your… other form?” Fura asked.

“No. Only just above the ground. You know. Levitate.”

“Levitation isn’t a possibility,” Garen Marethi said, falling into step next to them, “There were potions and spells for it once, but the secret is lost to the ages and none have been able to replicate it since.”

“No, I was talking about… nevermind.”

“We could climb,” Fura suggested.

Roë had to hand it to her. For being reduced to a chunk of vampiric charcoal only an hour ago, she sure had spirit to suggest climbing in her condition. The Snow Elf blood had healed her greatly, but her face was still a crater landscape of burst and discoloured skin.

“I… suppose we could,” Garen Marethi ruminated. “But climbing… I don’t know.”

Roë shrugged. “What’s the danger? You could fall, get hurt, be forced to burn blood to heal. Not like a fall can kill us, right?”

“It could,” Garen said. “If it’s from high enough.”

“The stones are big, uneven and rough,” Fura said. “The seams are deep and worn with time and wind and rain. It’ll be an easy climb. I’ve warned Lord Harkon for it several times but he simply laughed it off.” She was silent for a moment. “I don’t think he’ll be laughing much when we climb through the window of his throne room.”

“It could work,” Roë agreed. “We enter through the secret entrance, and then, from the courtyard, climb up to the throne room. With any luck, we’ll only have Harkon to deal with. Possibly Modhna too.”

“If she’s there,” Fura said, “I hope she has the hounds with her.”

Garen blinked. “Why?”

With a mysterious smile, Fura only said, “I’m rather convinced they’ll listen to me more than they listen to her.”

“Meanwhile,” Garen said, “I intend to be far from useless, though you may consider me so.”

She did, but didn’t say it. “How’s that?”

“You spoke of a laboratory, yes? I’m sure I can, if allowed to spend a short moment in there, produce all kinds of useful chemical devices to make your infiltration and subsequent deposing of Lord Harkon considerably easier.” He quickly corrected, “Errr. _Our_ infiltration, of course.”

“That’s more like it,” Roë grunted.

“Of course,” Fura pointed out, “We’ll have to pass the plan by Lady Serana first. She might have objections.”

“Serana can stuff her objections in any orifice she likes,” Roë said to that, immediately regretting it.

“Oh, right,” Fura said with a roll of her eyes. “I forgot, you two are twelve years old.”

Before Roë realized it, her hand shot out, grabbing Fura by the collar and lifting her up with next to no effort, even as the skin on her shoulder seared with unhealed burns. “You shut your damn mouth, bitch.” Who the _fuck_ did she think she was, judging her or Serana?

The girl didn’t resist or struggle, just quietly breathed, “This doesn’t help anyone. Let me go, alright?”

Reluctantly, she released the girl, who only shrugged her clothes back into form and muttered, “Touchy, aren’t we?”

“Fura,” Garen said patiently, “these are trying times for all of us, especially… well. We should concentrate on Lord Harkon, not on each other.”

Roë heard herself adding, “That means shut up and walk.”

“Alright,” Fura said quietly. “Apologies, Lady Roë, that was… childish of me.”

“Mm.”

“She means well,” Garen Marethi added. “Fura just has… very little patience for theatrics and drama.”

Were these two deliberately trying her patience? “Are you saying I’m being dramatic?” she snapped.

“No, no…” he assured her quickly. “Badly chosen words. I just mean…” his eyes quickly went to Fura, as if making sure he had her approval, “Fura simply isn’t… well versed in the emotional aspect of things.”

“Am too.”

With a chuckle, Garen simply said, “What were you saying about being twelve?”

A short grunt from Fura ended the conversation.

They slept in an abandoned log cabin that still provided protection from the sun, Fura returning before sunrise with a deer, half torn-apart, and her face and chin bloody. She was recuperating well. The deer blood invigorated Roë too, and the initially excruciating pain in her shoulder was now a mere patch of whiny, throbbing, hard, scabbed skin. A few more meals and she’d be good as new.

Fura and Garen exchanged a few words during the walk back to the Castle, but Roë and Serana were silent, each occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. In between pining, Roë found herself thinking of her parents, hoping they were alright. Better than Roë herself, doubtless. She’d give anything to be with them now, during those few days off that coincided, sitting in the tiny little patch of garden behind Roë’s tiny little house, enjoying cheap wine and talking about all kinds of things. She’d had too few of those days. Too little time.

How would she ever explain all this to them? They’d be worried after a while, even though they knew their daughter could take care of herself. And they’d find out their daughter had gone missing from the guard. After some digging, they’d learn that she’d went off to join the Dawnguard with a colleague who had then turned up dead, and then disappeared herself.

She couldn’t leave her parents to worry like that. She’d write a little something just letting them know she was still alive. Alive. What a joke.

It would have to be done before they confronted Harkon. It didn’t matter much to her if she survived or not, but she’d have to make sure her parents were at least reassured she was alright, even if she really wasn’t.

A few bandits had provided some fine sustenance before sunrise, sleeping in their makeshift camp and easily crept up on. Roë had resisted the urge to overfeed, to which she was at least a little bit relieved, and Garen had complained about being stuck with the Khajiit and having to pick fur out of his teeth for hours afterward, but the bandits hadn’t even been disturbed in their sleep and would never know what a great help they’d been. They were probably a few of those morons who tried to extort a hundred septims from a Volendrung-wielding demigod clad in armour worth ten thousand times that.

They’d reached the misty shore, and followed it east so they could get to the rowboat. As the jetty came into view, however, Serana stopped and held up a hand, the Bow on her back.

“What’s wrong?” Roë asked.

Serana crouched, and the others instinctively did the same. “There. He’s got a bunch of flunkies waiting for us.” They stood right at the end of the jetty, which was encased in ice all the way to the end, the boat just barely in the water.

They’d have to be really, really powerful flunkies to even hope to stand a chance against Serana and Roë. “Oh please. They’re probably quaking in their shoes already just from knowing we’ll show up sooner or later. I say we smear them all over the rocks and done.”

Fura agreed. “They’ll probably be vampires I hate anyway.”

Serana did not share their preference for a head-on approach, sighing impatiently. “Yes. By all means let’s do that, so Harkon definitely knows we’re coming. Did you really think he put those mooks there to stop us? He _wants_ us to arrive, but he also wants to know exactly when and where.”

Garen took her side. “You can be certain that at least one of them has instructions to bolt for the Castle, or light a big signal fire as soon as they see us.”

“We’ll have to evade them,” Serana said, peering at them from behind the large boulder they were crouched behind. “Can’t believe you two actually need me to spell this out for you.”

Roë felt her teeth clench together.

“Perhaps you should also spell it out to us how we’re going to evade them,” Fura asked, her tone bordering on the insolent, “if you’re so enlightened.”

Serana turned her head and her eyes flashed. “Watch your mouth.”

“We’re not in the Castle anymore, Lady Serana. We’re both indebted to the Lady Roë for taking us out of that horrible pit, but the fact of the matter”, Fura said, somehow able to be both fierce and respectful at the same time, “is that we’re four vampires risking our unlives together for a common goal. I’ve always respected you, Lady Serana, but treating us like cretins won’t win you much loyalty.”

There was a brief silence, and eventually Serana grudgingly conceded, “I suppose you’re right.”

“We’re all rogue vampires right now,” Garen agreed. “There will be plenty of time for hierarchy and protocol when this is done.”

“Yes, alright, alright.”

“So, Serana,” Roë asked, making her sneering tone just audible enough, “How are we going to evade these cronies? They’re staked out at the boat, and I sure hope your suggestion isn’t to swim?”

“No,” Serana said impatiently. “But they’re standing on ice, no land underneath. If that ice were to start trembling and cracking…”

“Ooh!” Fura went, her previous indignation forgotten, “can you actually make them fall into the water too?”

“We just need them to run for solid ground,” Serana said. “But… why not?”

“What if they run to the jetty?” Garen asked. It was a fair question.

“They won’t,” Serana said, the ice cold wind playing with her hair. “I’ll make sure the cracks originate from there.” She was silent for a moment, peering at the three vampires. “They _should_ run for the jutting piece of rock there, away from the boat.”

“They’ll still see us taking the boat though,” Roë pointed out.

“Visibility is limited,” Garen said, “but yes, they’ll see us going for the boat.”

Serana turned around with a grin. “ _Not_ if we get to the boat by water.”

Fura grunted in disappointment. “So we _are_ swimming?”

“Yes. Until we’re out of sight. They’ll see us if we head to the boat overland, but with this limited visibility, they’ll never see the boat float away, led by unseen hands.”

“Let’s get to it then,” Roë said, annoyed at the prospect but conscious enough to realize that what irritated her the most was the fact that she never had ideas like those.

Serana cloed her eyes and concentrated. She’d have to weave a spell that was both powerful and subtle. Strong enough to crack the ice, but of a low enough profile to not alert the flunkies to its presence.

With a sharp intake of breath, Serana opened her eyes and grabbed Roë’s shoulder for balance. “This is difficult. Let me try again.”

Her hand came off Roë’s shoulder. The brief touch of her hand had stirred all kinds of feelings in Roë and she had to force them back down.

“Right. For real this time,” Serana muttered. Nothing happened for a while, but then a very low, quiet rumbling sounded, the ground beneath them beginning to slowly vibrate.

“That tickles,” Fura remarked.

Serana grunted, and with a loud, hard _crack_ , the ice around the jetty broke, sending puffs of snow up into the mist.

A few moments later, they heard the flunkies raise their voices in panic, and sure enough, they bolted for the rocky outcropping, away from the jetty. Roë was almost angry that Serana’s plan was succeeding, but realized she was only being angry with herself.

“Let’s go,” Garen said. “To the water.”

Even though she protested with, “I may not have much use for my tits anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want them to freeze off,” Fura followed him, creeping towards the edge of the ice shore. Roë sneaked after them, after verifying that Serana had gotten over her exertion and could follow.

“This… is… _cold_ ,” Fura peeped, her teeth chattering, as she lowered herself into the water.

“It’s a welcome change from the sun pit,” Garen pointed out, even as his speech slowed and went slurred from the cold.

Roë lowered herself in too, and it was like the water pressed her flat, the cold biting at her skin and stabbing through to her bones. Y’ffre, this was horrible.

“Just keep moving,” Serana said between gritted teeth. “Hypothermia can’t kill us, but without body heat, the cold will immobilize us if we don’t move.” She added, “But bugger me with a fish fork, this is _cold_.”

“The s… sooner we reach the boat,” Fura said, going blue as she made her way, “the sooner we’re out of this misery.” She swum like a dog, paddling her feet and hands underneath her body.

“Wh… what kind of way of sw… swimming is th.. that, Fura?” Garen laughed through his agony. “You sw… swim doggies.”

“It’s the only way I know how, alright?” Fura snapped back. “We weren’t all born on some volcanic shithole island.”

“Come on, move,” Serana chuckled. As she glided through the water with an elegant breaststroke. “We stop moving, we’re going to the bottom, probably forever.”

“That’s… possibly the worst prospect ever,” Fura muttered.

Roë shot a look at the vampires Lord Harkon had posted, sticking her head out above the ice, and saw them huddled on the rock, only vague shapes in the night mist. The cold felt like it was in her insides, freezing them solid. It was as if sharp lances of cold slowly impaled her nethers. Her muscles, too, became more and more difficult to move, and she could literally feel them turning to ice.

The boat came closer, Fura muttering all kinds of terrible curses as she lost her place in the lead and was overtaken by all three vampires, who actually were capable of more than doggie-paddling. Serana and Roë reached the boat almost simultaneously, with Garen following closely behind. Serana cut the rope and they began pushing the boat out, paddling with their feet. Fura reached them a bit later, only barely keeping above water. Her movements were slow and lazy-looking. “I’m fr… freezing,” she slurred, slowly and feebly. “Can’t… move.”

Roë felt her muscles slowly lock up too. “S… Serana, we h… have to get in the boat or we’re… spending eternity on th… the bottom of the sea.” She heard herself speak and her voice sounded like she was falling asleep. It was exactly how she felt, too.

“They… can still see us,” Serana slurred back.”

“Have to… take the risk,” Garen breathed. “Muscles… turning to ice.”

Roë felt the cold overtake her. It was the first time since her death that she’d felt genuinely sleepy. Perhaps sleeping the ages away, frozen at the bottom of the sea, was not such a bad fate after all. She’d be at peace, just resting for all eternity.

She didn’t feel the cold, just drowsiness. She had trouble keeping her eyes open, her body completely numb. She just… wanted... to… sleep.

Closing her eyes, she let the water take her, slowly sinking downwards and giving herself to the sea.

She was entirely at peace with what was happening, for the first time the beast inside her slept, unable to stop her from letting go, from letting her body go under in the ice cold water, never to come up again.

Perhaps this was the best way for all of this to end.

There was no more feeling in her entire body, and it was a curious feeling. As if she was alone with nothing but her mind. Weightless, painless, griefless.

A jerking motion rattled her back to the world as her body was lifted up out of the water by three pairs of hands. She opened her eyes and saw the misty night sky.

“Almost got away from us there,” she heard Garen Marethi say.

“A little deeper and we wouldn’t have been able to retrieve you,” Fura added.

She was still ice cold and numb, but she was out of the water. She saw Garen take one of the oars, Serana attempting to row the other with slow and powerless muscles.

Damn these three. She’d almost had the release she’d hoped for.

After a bit, when they were somewhat further out to sea, Serana risked conjuring a small flame to hover in the air, the four vampires huddled around it, almost entirely frozen. It wasn’t much, but at least they could move somewhat normally again. Serana promised to conjure something bigger once they were safely out of sight, in the cave leading to the laboratory. They’d need the warmth to climb.

They were a procession of misery when the boat finally reached the rocks near the secret passage. The instant they were done hoisting their numb bodies up the rocks, Serana was all but threatened with death into conjuring up some warmth, the vampire’s fear of fire utterly forgotten. By the time they were all warmed to a semi-acceptable level, dawn lit up the cave mouth, at a safe distance from them. The passage was more than safe enough to sleep in, and so they did, lying down on the cold, hard rocks as the lethargy of day overtook them.

Roë woke to the light of a dancing flame, Serana sitting by it, warming her hands. She briefly looked back at Roë and then to the fire. Fura and Garen were still lying in torpor.

“What time is it?” Roë asked, dragging herself toward the flame.

“Just past dusk,” Serana said flatly.

“Hey, Serana, look, I…”

Serana only shook her head, still looking at the flame. “We’ve both made mistakes and we both made it difficult for each other, but it’s beyond fixing now.”

“Why? It doesn’t have to be? I mean, we might not survive this night. Can’t we at least… I don’t know, stop being bitches towards each other?”

Serana only gave her a brief look before settling her eyes on the flame again. “You’re the one being rotten, not me.”

“Come on, that’s – ”

“Roë. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me. I always will be. But you’ve changed and I don’t like the direction in which you have. Not one bit.”

“I’m trying my best to adapt to all of this. Do you think this is easy f – ”

“No, Roë. I don’t think it’s easy. But…” she brought her face closer to Roë and said quietly, “I’m scared for you. And _of_ you.”

“Wh… what?” Roë blurted incredulously. Was she serious? Had she not paid attention when Roë had laid her heart bare? “I could never hurt you, Serana. I can’t believe you’d think such a thing.”

“Not right now, no,” Serana said, unmoving. “But in a week? In a month? Roë, you’re losing your mind. I can see it in the way you lool, in the way you act. This change doesn’t stop once it’s started, and what might seem unthinkable to you now, will be perfectly fine as time passes. I warned you over and over and you didn’t listen. And that’s why we have to part ways after this. Because I don’t want events to lead us to a confrontation.”

“So you’re just giving up on me?”

She sighed. “I still care about you, Roë. And I wish all this hadn’t happened, but it did, and that’s the reality of it. We’re deposing my father for the safety of both of us, but no more than that. We’re temporary allies, that’s all.”

“You’re just giving up on me.”

“I don’t want to have to _kill you_ , Roë!” Serana shouted suddenly. “And this is the only way, now let! It! Go!”

“I take it the night has already fallen?” Garen Marethi grunted, bothered by all the noise.

“It has,” Roë said, getting to her feet. “We’re moving. Once Harkon’s dealt with, you’ll be rid of me forever.” In frustration and self-pity, she kicked the sleeping Fura in the ribs. “Get up. It’s time.”

With a grunt, Fura woke up, her hand on her brow. “Who just kicked me?”

“Nevermind,” Serana said. “We have to get this over with. Are we ready?”

“Not yet,” Garen said. “We should pass by this laboratory first. We can warm ourselves there and I can see what I can concoct in the meantime.”

Serana led them to the courtyard and from there into the laboratory.

“Think Harkon’s lookouts noticed by now that the boat is gone?”

Serana shrugged. “Probably not, and even if they did, they probably just think it drifted off on its own.”

“Let’s hope so,” Roë muttered.

While Garen Marethi mixed all kinds of substances, his choice limited to what was still more or less useable after so long, the three women sat silently at another of Serana’s dancing flames. It seemed to take forever, but given Garen’s limited means, took only an hour or so in reality.

It was time. They proceeded back into the courtyard, Serana running her hands over the stones. Above them was Lord Harkon’s throne room, blind to the courtyard without windows looking out over it. “It’ll work. Stones are plenty rough. Is everyone suitably warmed up? It’s going to be a serious climb.”

Roë merely nodded, Fura remarked that what waited at the end of the climb would make the actual scaling seem like a joke, and Garen, glass bottles hanging at his side, merely said he was as ready as he’d ever be.

They started the climb. The stones were, indeed, rough and jutting, the seams deep and eroded. It was fairly easy, insofar as an unsecured climb of a wall thirty metres high could be easy. The wind tugged at their clothes, and Roë took care not to look down under any circumstance, but they made decent progress. Thankfully, no one appeared to be afraid of heights, and one positive aspect about being a vampire was that muscles experienced next to no fatigue.

Serana climbed first, gracefully and fluently, first getting to the right height, then moving horizontally along the tower to reach the window that looked out on the sea behind the Castle. Once there, she hung in place, waiting for the others. Garen took slightly longer, weighted down by the glass bottles, but eventually they were all in position.

“We can’t waste _any_ time,” Serana said. “We hit fast and hard. We’ll have our hands full against him alone, even when there’s four of us. If others can come to his aid… well…” her voice trailed off and sadness came over her face.

“You alright, Lady Serana?” Garen asked.

Serana nodded, hanging from the wall. “Yes. It’s just…”

“He’s still your father,” Fura said, sounding unusually empathic for her doing.

“Exactly.” She took a breath and set her jaw. “But this has to happen. Good to go?”

Silently, Roë and the others acknowledged their readiness.

“Then _go_!”

Simultaneously, they pulled themselves over the window ledges, and inside.

They took Harkon completely by surprise, entering the back of his audience chamber, behind his throne.

“What? How did you…” Harkon barked, leaping up and turning around. His surprise only lasted a second, and he fell back into his role right away. “Serana, you… brought the Bow?” His smile was amiable, if nervous, but they all knew it was fake, and he knew they knew. Still, he held out his hand. “Give it to me, Serana. Give me the Bow.”

“You’re not getting it.”

“Yes, I am. You’re my daughter and – ”

“We’re not here to give you the Bow, father. We’re here to use it against you.”

He snarled, “These two worthless wastes of dead skin, fine. But you? My daughter? Is this what I get for my trust? For the faith I placed in you? And you, _Lady_ Roë, for all the power I’ve given? You reward me with treachery?”

Serana shook her head. “No, father. I know what your intentions are with me. You’ve lied to me from the start. I know what the final step of the ritual entails.”

He lowered his head, his blazing eyes burning at his daughter. “You will give me the Bow, and your blood, or I will take it from you.”

“There are four of us, father. There is still a chance for surrender.”

Harkon let out a bellowing laugh. “Indeed there is, and you still have the opportunity to offer it.”

“It ends now.”

All four sprang into action at the same time. Serana launched a sharp ice spear at her father, Garen took one of the bottles off his belt and pulled his arm back to throw, and Roë stormed her Vampire Lord along with Fura.

Even as he changed, Harkon easily batted both Fura and Roë away, sending them flying back several metres. His other arm smashed the icy projectile to bits mid-flight, and in the same movement, he caught the bottle Garen had thrown, launching it back right at him.

Garen dived out of the way, avoiding the blast as the vial smashed and exploded, the volatile chemicals blowing the container apart. Serana drew the Bow, but Harkon, now changed fully into his monstrous Vampire Lord form, cleared the distance to her with two lightning-fast leaps, his fist striking Serana so hard she was lifted off her feet and thrown against a pillar, her back hitting it with a horrible cracking sound. Garen readied another bottle, but before he could throw, Harkon had taken a bronze chandelier in his massive claw and with a back-handed throw, launched it at Garen, hitting him straight on the forehead and sending him down in a spray of blood.

She had to shift. There was nothing else for it.

Screaming in pain as her bones snapped and her muscles stretched and tore, Roë assumed the form of the Vampire Lady, the only creature that could match its Lord in power. Her blood spattered in all directions as her skin tore and merged anew.

“Lord Harkon!”

Modhna had stormed in to investigate the ruckus, and Fura immediately picked herself up off the floor and charged the new arrival, her mace held high, shouting at Harkon’s servant just how dead she would soon be.

Her body throbbing with power and pain, Roë leapt at Harkon, smacking into him just in time to stop him from stomping Serana’s head flat. They rolled over the ground, Roë’s body still sore and torn, but she did find the strength to punch Harkon right in the face.

The Vampire Lord hoisted Roë into the air and roared, his voice distorted and warped with sheer power, “You are _nothing_. You have the form, but not the power! Not the will! Not the _blood_!”

His claw hooked around her throat, unimaginable power slowly constricting her. She didn’t need the air, but the pressure was so intense her neck felt like it would snap, even as strong and massive as it was. Her massive clawed feet kicked the air.

“I’ll spill your _guts_!”

He drew his free claw back to open Roë wide, but she pulled her knees up and kicked him in the chest as hard as she could, her massive grey-skinned legs smacking into his ribcage, wrenching the bulging, misshapen muscles lying over it and breaking several ribs. He was forced to let go and she fell to the ground along with him.

As she regained her footing, her eye briefly shot past Fura and Modhna, rolling over the ground fighting.

A bright streak of blinding golden light flashed in between Roë and Harkon, missing the Vampire Lord’s head by mere breadths of a hair. Serana shook from the pain, lying on the ground with her back broken, but tried frantically to draw the Bow again..

Roë and Harkon both got to their feet at the same time, throwing themselves at each other and impacting in mid-air, Harkon’s massive claw tearing across Roë’s chest, and her talons shearing open his face. Their bodies collided and they fell to the ground, clawing at each other as they went.

Pain exploded from Roë’s forearm as Harkon’s maw closed on it and bit the bones instantly into splinters. She heard herself let out an inhuman roar of pain, and with her other hand, she reflexively smacked her fist into the side of Harkon’s head. She struck him just in time to open his jaw and keep him from tearing her arm clean off.

He threw her off him, sending her sailing through the air, and as she came down, he pounced on her like a great cat. Before he could reach her, an exploding bottle hit him, knocking him aside and sending him crashing to the ground, blood trailing behind him. At the same time, another bright golden streak of light cut through the air where he would have been had the bottle not sent him flying to the side.

Before he could scramble to his feet, however, Roë threw herself at him, thrusting her remaining claw into the gaping wound made by the grenade, which had torn his shoulder and part of his chest and belly open. He wailed in agony and Roë twisted her claw back and forth, blood spurting up in her face.

The brief moment of paralysis would be his last. Biting the horrible pain everywhere in her body, Roë sprang upright and raised her leg, sending her clawed foot down right on his torn face. The felt the skull crack as the stomp came down, and Harkon let out a muffled, broken scream. She pounded her foot down again, and this time she felt the Vampire Lord’s jaw snap in two. Another kick. And another. And with the last one, she felt the skull give way in its entirety, and her clawed foot flattened the exposed mass of soft, weak tissue, crushing his brain, his eyeballs, and everything else in his head, blood flying in all directions, creating a dark red star on the stone floor.

She withdrew her foot and went to one knee, unable to keep standing upright.

Garen Marethi lowered the glass grenade he was ready to throw, and Fura, swaying on her feet, pulled Modhna’s sword from its owner’s chest, her revenge achieved.

“We... we won,” she cheered, her face and chest red with Modhna’s blood almost unable to believe it herself. But then her eyes went wide. “Lady Roë, _watch out_!”

Roë whipped her head to the side just in time to see the bright flash of golden light coming towards her, and she threw her body backwards, smacking into the stones with her shoulders as the sunhallowed arrow cut the air above her.

Serana, weeping in pain, tried to pull the bowstring again, but with her back broken, she didn’t have the time before Roë lurched towards her and put her foot on the Bow, and Serana’s wrist.

Several vampires stormed in, but Roë bellowed at them, “Lord Harkon is destroyed. Back off or you’ll join him!” Even in her brutally injured state, she could probably still hold off these lesser, thin-blooded mongrels. And they knew it, backing away and leaving the same way they’d come in.

She turned back to the woman lying at her feet. The one who had _dared_ to murder her. “And _you_!” she roared, pulling her claw back, ready to swipe Serana’s head off. “What’s keeping me from…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence and her claw hung in the air. She knew the face looking up at her, even in its despair, pain and grief. This was Serana. Beautiful Serana. She’d tried to… How could she have…

“I’m sorry, Roë,” Serana wept, her hand still pinned. “But I _had_ to. I had to try. I can’t bear to see you… turning into… into…”

“So you’d destroy me instead? Shoot the very sun into my head?”

“It… it would have been a short pain, and then you’d be at peace. I had to try and… save you from what you’ll become.”

“ _I don’t need saving_!” she bellowed. “And I’ll prove it to you!”

Serana lay awaiting her fate.

It was the best proof she could give. “You’ll get blood to heal your back, and then you can leave unharmed. I said I could never hurt you, and I meant it. But… why, Serana? Why?”

Serana could say nothing and laid her forehead on the stone floor.

“Fura, Garen, take her out of here. Give her the blood she needs. The Bow stays here. I will not have you using it against me.”

Roë lifted her foot off Serana’s hand, and without a word, the two dragged Serana away, the elder vampire biting the pain without a sound. She’d shift back to her humanoid form when she was alone, and put on fresh clothes before anyone could see her.

“When she’s out the gates,” Roë called after them, “you both have the honour of announcing that Castle Volkihar has a new Lady.”


	59. A New Meaning

**.**

**A New Meaning**

 

 

“Coming to, are you?”

He recognized the voice, but knew it didn’t belong to someone he knew well. He tried to speak but fell into a coughing fit that sent jolts of pain all through his body, the taste of smoke blasting through his mouth. He opened his stinging eyes and saw a woman standing over him, her arms crossed and bearing a wide grin. She had blonde hair and was dressed in armour made of bone, now spattered with blood.

What had happened again? Right, the fire. He’d rescued a little baby, or at least, hoped he had.

“Th… the…”

“Just fine. A little cooked, but alive.”

He tried to get up, all his bones aching.

“Stay still for a bit. You took a nasty fall.”

He was in a shack, lying down on a bed of soft straw. Night had fallen while he was out, apparently.

The woman crouched beside him. She had the strangest eyes, somehow… unnatural. Unsettling. “That was quite incredible what you did, as stupid as it was to run into a burning house. And trust me, when I say it, that means something. I kill dragons for a living.”

“Yes, I’ve… heard of you,” he said hoarsely, still coughing up smoke. “You’re the uh…”

“Dovahkiin, yes.” She rolled her eyes as she said it. “Or that’s what they call me. I’m just some butch chick who’s good at chopping up oversized reptiles.” She smiled broadly and held out her hand. “Arska Gvalhir. You can address me by my first name. Oblivion, anyone who risks being burned alive to save a child gets the right to ditch the honorifics.”

“Keljarn.” He feebly shook her hand, his arm in terrible pain.

“Also, you’re forgiven for crashing into me just then.”

“I was… chasing someone.” The murdering little rat. He’d had to let her go to save the infant, but he was relieved to feel that he regretted nothing. Shame she got away, but he knew Ria, Njada and Kodlak would have approved of his choice. What was petty revenge compared to the life of an innocent child?

He tried again to get up, but paralyzing pain shot up from his shoulder.

“Yes, that’s… probably dislocated,” the woman said, her grin still very much there, as she observed him clutching the joint. “Could have been much worse, though.”

“Sure… could have.” He realized now that the child he’d saved was now an orphan. “So what… happens to the child now? Any family?”

“Don’t think so,” the woman said, still kneeling by him. “Young couple, just settled here. No one knew who they were. Little poop plopper has no family for all we know. Suppose if no one takes it in, they’ll drop it off at the Orphanage in Riften.”

Biting the pain, Keljarn shook his head. “No. I’m not letting that happen. I know exactly how those children turn out.” Perhaps this was an opportunity to do more than just take revenge or even save a young life. Perhaps this was also an opportunity to prevent that young life from turning out the same way the assassin had done.

The woman shrugged. “We all turn out the way we do for all kinds of reasons. Heh, I almost had my block knocked off in a town called Helgen. Was _this_ close to ending up in two before a dragon attacked. Crazy stuff, life.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be a reason for this infant if I can help it. Can you… do me a favour?”

“Absolutely.”

“Tell the village that unless anyone has a legitimate reason to be the one to take care of the child, I want to take it home with me.”

She snorted. “I’m pretty certain no one will have a more legitimate claim than actually saving the little thing.”

“Thanks. You know, I’d heard stories about you, and I have to say… you’re not as bad as they say.”

She chuckled. “Second time I’ve heard that in a very short time. Don’t be too quick to like me. I think a lot of people would disagree. Like the folks in Riften, for starters.”

“Oh.” He had no idea what she was on about, and it was probably best not to ask. “But thanks for letting these people know I’d like to take the child home with me.”

“It’s only right. And home would be…?”

“The Companions. We’ll make a proud, honest, honourable man out of him.”

She shook her head, standing up brusquely. “No. No way. I can’t believe you’d even ask that of me. How _dare_ you even make the suggestion.”

What in Oblivion had he said wrong? “But… what’s so bad about…?”

“I will not have you gluing a wooden pee pee to her pelvis.”


	60. Smoke and Flame

 

**?**

 

 

 

 

“I’ll teach you to go blabbing! I’ll _teach you_!”

“But… But I only wanted…”

“I don’t care what you wanted! You went yapping to the priest! You dirty chubby little snitch!”

“Mommy, please, I – ”

“Shut up and come with me. _Come with me_! You want me to drag you? Fine! How’s that, huh? Let go! Let go of the doorway! Stop your blubbing! I’ll give you something to cry about!”

“Mommy, why are you doing this? Please, I just want you to stop! I just want us to be happy again!”

“Happy? You want me to be happy? If you want me to be happy, you _leave me alone_! You don’t want me to be happy, you just want to hurt me. Why do you always want to hurt me? Huh?”

“I don’t understand, mommy! I miss daddy too, but – ”

“ _Don’t you_ talk about him! What? You want another one? You want another reason to cry, here you go!”

“Stop! Mommy stop!”

“The more you cry, the harder I hit! You’re the one making me do this. Now come here!”

“Ow! Mommy, my hair!”

“Shut up! I never wanted it to come to this, but you’re leaving me no choice. Get on your knees. _Get on your knees_!”

“Mommy, please…”

“Stop whining. Put your hands behind your back. Do it!”

“Mommy why are you…”

“Quiet. Stick out your tongue. _Stick out your tongue._ Farther. All the way, damn you!”

“Krgh!”

“Now you are going to sit there, with your hands tied behind your back, and your tongue in this vice, you learn when you can talk and when you need to shut up!”

“Nngh!”

“No! Be quiet. Maybe when your tongue hurts enough, you’ll learn not to take it for granted and to keep it still. What have I done to deserve such a traitor for a child? No. No! Stop making noise. Let me smoke in peace.”

Mother lights up the pipe and lies down on the bed. It doesn’t take long for her eyes to roll back and the drug to send her in a state of trance. She simply hadn’t been able to handle it when father died. They’d been happy for a long time, the three of them, father working as a weaponsmith for the militia, and mother in the city guard. They’d loved each other so much, mother and father, and every time they were together, the house was truly a home.

But when father had been sent off to war, only a letter had returned. Mother hadn’t been able to deal with it. She’d never talked about it, shut everyone out. And she’d darkened. Slowly at first, but then rapidly. It had started with just a morose attitude, but she’d soon descended into a spiral of self-pity, blame projection, and a general hate for people. And the more she used the drugs she’d gotten hooked on, the more her perception of reality had suffered, until everyone was rotten and evil, and everyone was the cause of her problems. Even her only child had eventually turned into the enemy, and now it all comes to a head.

Mother lies there, the pipe in her limp fingers, one leg out of bed. Her eyelids flutter occasionally, but apart from that, she doesn’t move, away in whatever world she is taken to when she smokes the white crystals.

Tongue hurts. The vice clamps down on it so hard the tissue screams. Mother has turned the lever on the thing so hard it’s got the tongue utterly stuck, unable to move. Shoulders begin to hurt too, from sitting with hands tied. Knees too. The ground is hard and cold.

The iron jaws of the vice grind against tooth enamel. Sends painful shivers all the way down to the base of the spine. Tears blur everything.

Mother murmurs in her sleep. The pipe dangles loosely in her hand. Slides down a little bit between her fingers. A little bit more.

It always happens. Always the same way. And there’s never anything that can be done. It can only be watched as it unfolds the same way it always has.

The pipe slides a little lower.

Making noise or trying to get free is pointless. Mother is completely sedated, and the vice and bonds are too right. Pulling only hurts, as if it’s going to be guts getting pulled out with it. A tongue goes a _long_ way down.

Without a sound, the pipe comes to rest on the blanket and mattress. It turns over. Slowly, slowly.

Smouldering crystal lazily rolls out of the pipe, onto the fabric. Smoke begins to curl up towards the wooden ceiling.

No noise, no amount of screaming can wake mother as the bed catches fire, slowly at first. The black smoking patch sprouts a tiny flame, which grows higher and higher and begins to expand in every direction, the fire timid at first, but growing bolder and greedier as it devours more and more of the fabric.

Wake up! Mother, wake up!

The flames grow higher and hotter, now as tall as a campfire. Mother’s clothes start catching fire, first her sleeve, then her bodice. Why doesn’t she wake up? Even with all the drugs, she should be able to feel the flames. Why doesn’t she wake up?

Her hair begins to smoke, and soon the flames devour it too. Mother is now a pillar of fire, and the flames begin licking at the ceiling. Everything is a blur through the tears. Mother is burning alive, the person who was once a loving parent, before the grief and substances changed her. Mother burns alive and a child’s heart with it.

Smoke and flame begin to engulf the cabin. No way to escape, no way to get free. Hands tied, tongue clamped in a vice. No point screaming for help. Someone would have come already.

One last pull, but again it only makes it feel like esophagus and stomach will be pulled out with it.

The entire cabin burns and the heat sears skin.

There’s only one thing left to do.

All it takes is screams, tears and teeth. The blood comes on its own.

  

**Smoke And Flame**

**Somewhere in the real world**

 

  

The fire turned into sunlight, burning through her eyelids, turning everything red.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Oh Sithis, everything hurt. Everything was pounding, pulsing pain. The dream again. That rotten, stinking, fucking dream. It was the same every time.

“Hello? Speak up if you can hear me. Or nod. Or something.”

It sounded like a man talking. Older.

Siari opened her eyes, the orange rays of the rising sun blinding her.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll close the drapes.” The sound of iron rings gliding across a rail, and the piercing light dulled. “Better? Try opening your eyes again?”

She managed it this time and saw the ceiling of a small cabin. Wooden beams and wooden roofing. Her eyes swivelled past cupboards, an amateuristic painting of mountains, and a mounted elk head, to settle on the wrinkled, crumpled face of a Nord who looked older than the mountains of Skyrim themselves.

“Hello there. It was a rough night, but you made it through the worst. I assume you still feel like you were under the wheels of a rambling cart, but believe it or not, it’ll get better. It was hard work, but I pulled you through.”

Siari tried to move, but the pain made her think otherwise.

“Yes, I’d stay still for a bit if I were you.” The man smiled at her, his face wrinkling up even more. “So. I’ve been dying to know who exactly it was I snatched from death’s door. Can you tell me your name?”

 _Telling_ him her name would be difficult. She slowly shook her head, and grimacing against the pain, she freed one arm from the blankets. Her bones felt like they were rusty, pointy chunks of agony. Still, she bit the pain and made a writing gesture.

“Oh, you want something to write?”

The man got up, rummaged around, and a piece of paper and charcoal slid between her fingers. With a pained grunt, she wrote her name in shaky, scrawled letters.

“Sy-ari?”

She was in too much pain to correct him.

“Do you have any idea what happened to you?”

Of course she did. She’d leapt off the bridge with an arrow in her shoulder and splattered apart on the water… except not entirely it seemed. Still, she shook her head slowly. Better he didn’t know.

“Ah. Shame.” He clicked his tongue. “All I know is I found you on the riverbank, broken and only barely clinging to life, a snapped arrow shaft in your shoulder. There were unshod hoof marks in the mud around you, but they were bigger than any I’ve ever seen.”

Shadowmere. Shadowmere had pulled her out of the water. She was alive, and she had the beast to thank for it.

The man pulled his mouth to one side. “Shame you don’t remember. But it’s not my business anyway, really. I’m just glad I found you when I did.” His eyes settled on her. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask or judge what you were wearing and why. You were simply a person in need.”

That was nice of him. The pain, while overwhelming at first, slowly became more bearable.

“Saving your life was hard work. The healing spells I had to cast were so exhausting that it wouldn’t have taken much more for me to end up on the floor next to you.”

She turned her head and saw her leathers lying on a stool next to the bed, dagger belt and all.

Wait, if her leathers were there, that meant…

She suddenly became terribly aware of the blanket against her skin. She was naked! While she was unconscious and helpless, this man had taken her clothes off! Seen her, touched her, exposed her. And what else had he done to her? Where else had his hands and fingers been?

Her breaths came faster and faster as she recoiled from him, her fingers clenching the blanket.

“Hey… hey, what’s wrong?” the man asked, but when he saw Siari’s eyes go to the pile of clothes, he seemed to realize. “Oh. Don’t be scared,” he said, trying to calm her down. “All I could think of was trying to save your life. I didn’t treat you with anything but respect.”

It didn’t matter what he said, or how much he lied. This man had stripped her, his eyes and hands had been on her.

“Dear, I had to get these wet clothes off you,” he defended himself, trying to sound as harmless as possible. “Don’t be afraid, my candle’s been out for many years.”

The bastard! He’d taken advantage of her! He’d seen every bit of her!

Siari’s arm shot out and pulled her dagger from its sheath. Her clothes fell to the floor of the cabin. The pain forgotten, she lunged at him, the blanket falling off her. Her dagger flashed, and the man’s forearm, raised in reflex, caught it, the skin slashed open.

“Stop! Stop!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

She snarled and hacked again, this time cutting only air. Her bones screamed in pain and her muscles lost all their strength. She made another step forward, but that was as far as her broken body would take her. Her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor, clenching her teeth as her knees and elbows bonked against the wooden flooring.

“What in Oblivion is your problem?” the old man’s voice roared above her. “I cast myself into exhaustion to save your life, and this is the thanks I get? I pull you back from the brink of death and this is how you repay me?”

She felt one hand grab the hair on the back of her head, and another took her wrist.

“Get up!”

She was pulled to her feet and dragged toward the door. Oh Sithis what had she done? In her panic, she’d almost murdered the man, and now he could do whatever he wanted to her.

“You’re lucky I am a forgiving man, so you get to leave with your life. But I never, ever want to see you again! Get out of here!”

He kicked the door open, and the next moment, Siari was thrown through the air, her aching body falling flat into the mud with a wet _splat_. The mud was cold and wet, and her skin had sunk into it, the cold closing around her.

She felt leather slap against her bare behind.

“And here’s your clothes and your stuff. Now drag your worthless bones as far away from my hut as they’ll take you.”

She wanted to shout at him that she was sorry, to please let her in again, but without a tongue to form words with, she could only lie in the mud and cry.

This was the lowest she could ever sink. Naked, face down in the mud, cold and alone, her entire body in pain. She simply lay there and wept, and forgot that the time she had to rush to Sanctuary and save her family slowly burned away.


	61. Last Dawn

 

**Last Dawn**

**Castle Volkihar**

 

 

“Things will change now that I’m your Lady,” Roë announced to the crowd of assembled vampires in the atrium as she stood on the balcony overlooking the hall. “No more prophecies and Elder Scrolls and ancient rituals. If we want to assure our existence, we’ll have to secure it tooth and blade.”

The vampires muttered among themselves.

“Tonight, I will lead a small group of vampires to Fort Dawnguard. If they’re not stopped, they _will_ find us, and they _will_ destroy us.”

Roë had only been the Lady of Castle Volkihar for two nights when one of the vampires had reported to her that the small group of mooks posted on the other side of the strait had been staked and put to the torch. There had been a few torture implements left at the scene, as well as some extracted teeth, meaning that the Dawnguard – because it must have been the Dawnguard – now knew where Castle Volkihar lay, and they would doubtless mount an attack if given time to prepare. The fact that the Dragonborn was reportedly among their number, or at least closely affiliated with them, further complicated matters. Perhaps this Dragonborn was the only one who was powerful enough to pose a threat. They’d come during the day, and no amount of security measures would be able to stop them. The vampires had to strike first.

Roë had drained a few prisoners dry to heal her broken body, and she was fully recovered now, able to take on whatever the Dawnguard could throw at her. Serana had left her, forever, and she’d felt the last moorings of morality let go, and had done nothing to stop it. What did it matter anymore? All she had left now was this rulership, and she would use it for great things.

“ _Lady_ Roë,” one of the vampires – some whelp she didn’t know – spoke up. The disdain when he pronounced her title was clear. “What of Auriel’s Bow?”

Yes, what of it, indeed. If she took it along and it fell into the hands of the Dawnguard, they had a weapon to ensure the vampires’ demise with even faster. But if she left it here and someone found it… that would be even worse. And if she fel to the Dawnguard, what did it still matter that they had the Bow? It would be none of her concern anymore. She’d already decided. “I will bring it with me.”

Louder murmurs of indignation rose up. In the corner of her eye, she saw Fura give her a worried glance, the hounds straining at the leash in her fist.

“Quiet,” she shouted. “I will take the Bow with me, and that’s final. It’s what I’ve decided and _I_ am the Lady of this Castle.”

“Might alone does not royalty make, _Lady_ Roë,” the whelp spat at her. “You murdered Lord Harkon, but that doesn’t mean we have to accept your rule as legitimate.” The pesky braided Breton peasant was becoming seriously irritating. “Do you believe you can establish your petty tyranny just because you slew our Lord?”

The murmurs rose to a low chorus of agreement, and Roë’s irritation rose to tooth-gnashing anger. Had she not proven to be worthy of her position? She’d destroyed the despot who held this castle in a velvet-gloved iron grip, and replaced it with a rule she intended to be fair and just, and still these pests complained?

It wasn’t a big problem, though. All one had to do when one’s leadership was challenged, was to silence the ringleader, and make such a brutal example of him that the others would fall in line. She’d show them she deserved their trust later, she’d rule with a gentle hand when she had the leeway to do so, but right now she had to establish her rule by force.

This little peon wasn’t even worth shifting for.

“I _said_ I’m taking the Bow,” she shouted over the protest, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t treat you to a demonstration.”

All fell silent as she picked the Bow up from the ground, where it had been resting against the bannister at her feet. In a swift and fluid movement, the way only an elf could wield a bow, she drew the bowstring, and as a bright golden arrow materialized, she let fly, sending a streak of white golden light at the heart of the insolent mongrel inciting the vampires below her.

The whelp only had time to throw up his hands in a reflexive and pointless defence before the luminous missile embedded itself in his chest. The impact sent him staggering back, and when he opened his mouth in agony, bright white light flooded out. A moment later, his eyes splatted out of his face, rays of bright white shining from the empty sockets. He shrieked in horrible pain, clawing at his throat and face, before blowing apart in a blinding white flash, his blood, meat and guts flying in all directions.

That had felt _good_.

“Anyone else of the opinion that I shouldn’t keep the Bow in my care?”

None dared make a sound, or move, not even to wipe the mess of the exploded vampire from themselves.

“Good. No more criticism. _I_ rule this Castle now.”

She turned on her heels and returned to her throne room. “Garen, bring me two slaves. Male and female. Preferably in their primes.”

“Y-yes Lady Roë,” the vampire only dared to say.

Her demonstration hadn’t missed its effect, not even on her allies. So much the better. They’d been invaluable, and still were, but they too had to know their place.

After distracting herself with the slaves and the things they could be made to do to each other, Roë retired for the day, and after a short sleep, she crossed the strait with Garen and two newly infected fledglings. Garen and Fura were the only ones she trusted to undertake such a trip with her, but someone had to stay and look after her interests while she was gone. They made for Fort Dawnguard, Garen under explicit orders to watch the fledglings’ every move, and reached the fort without incident two nights after.

This would be over quickly.

She held out her hand and felt the longbow being laid into it by one of the fledglings. She carried Auriel’s Bow on her back and slung the normal bow over her other shoulder. Spider-climbing up the cliff that surrounded the fort, she scanned the target area and saw only a lone gate guard. From the top of the cliff, she was at least ten metres higher than he was.

She wasted no time, drew the bowstring and sent an arrow straight into the gate guard’s heart before he had even seen her. The man went down without a sound, his arm clawing the air for the bell rope.

That was one.

“What is the plan, Lady Roë?” Garen asked, as her feet touched the ground again.

“Plan?” Roë said, laughing at the question. “I don’t need a _plan_.” She rose and walked to the fortress. When she reached the gate, she kicked the guard’s body aside so it rolled over the edge of the stairs and smacked down on the rocks several metres lower. Garen and the fledglings followed.

A lone guard patrolled the entryway, and Roë made her shortsword come down, cleaving his skull. He fell, his brain splatting out the cleft in his head when he hit the ground. Another guard fell instantly and silently to Roë’s blade, her larynx slashed in two.

She proceeded to the main hall, the three other vampires in tow, and shot an arrow through the head of the third guard, the shaft entering through his nose and getting stuck in his skull as the tip broke free of the cranium after piercing the cerebellum.

“Do we split up or stay together when combing the fort?” Garen asked, keeping his voice to a hush.

“We do neither.”

The fledglings looked at each other uncertainly. Searching the entire place would be a drag, and it would run the risk of overlooking any Dawnguard members. And she was here for one purpose only: to leave none alive.

She tossed the bow on her back to one of the fledglings. The other still had his own. There were three entrances, three paths from which the enemy – or better, the prey – would come. “You two, take out anyone who comes through these archways, especially anyone holds a crossbow. Garen,” she announced. “Keep your last globe ready. Use it when it can inflict the most casualties.”

“Shouldn’t we – ”

Roë didn’t wait for him to finish and rung the assembly bell.

She waited, shortsword loosely in her hand, as the two whelps drew their bowstrings taut. One was an Altmer, the other a Redguard, so they should be at least decent with their bows. The first Dawnguard member who came jogging into the great hall was dropped by two arrows in the chest. The second died not soon after. As did the third, and the fourth. She recognized the elf, Celann, the one Durak had greeted when she’d first come here, so many centuries ago, as he went down with an arrow in the forehead, crashing to his knees and then ending splayed on the flagstones. The whelps were adequate with their bows, keeping all three entrances neatly covered and swivelling to lay down anyone who entered. The cook’s life was next to end, her fat gut and flabby neck skewered by more arrows.

The Dawnguard soldiers were realizing what was happening now, and after a few more of their number were slain by arrows, they chose a more careful approach, slowly coming near shoulder-to-shoulder, their shields up to protect themselves.

“Out of arrows,” the Altmer whelp rapped, dropping his bow and drawing his longsword.

“Spare yours,” Roë ordered the Redguard vampire. “Save them for crossbowmen.” She nodded at Roë, her face fearful despite the number of soldiers already slain. “Garen, now would be a good time for that globe, yes?”

One of the soldiers in the shield wall lowered his buckler and raised his crossbow with the other hand, but an arrow flawlessly found his throat.

The next moment, a glass sphere filled with volatile liquid sailed through the air, and as it hit the shield wall, it detonated, scattering the Dawnguard members, shields and weapons flying through the hall. Those not killed outright were reduced to wailing, smouldering heaps of flesh.

It was time.

Roë closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around her, and threw them outwards, her clothes and skin flying off her as the Vampire Lady once again took form.

The massacre didn’t take long. Hovering above the ground, Roë tore the soldiers apart from a distance, wrenching their bodies until their bones broke and their organs ruptured. With her other claw, she lifted one fighter after another, telekinetically propelling them against the walls so hard they were one by one flattened by the impacts, their screams cut short as their internal organs were smashed into mush. Several crossbow bolts struck her, but none did any real damage.

Durak was her next victim. When she spotted the Orsimer, she commanded her power to drain his life force from afar, his body jolting and shaking as his skeleton slowly collapsed in on itself, his blood leaving his body through his mouth and nose as a fine red mist. She heard his bones crack as his body slowly imploded, his blood swirling around Roë, invigorating her anew.

A few Dawnguard soldiers made it through Roë’s horrible gauntlet, her cohorts throwing themselves at them to protect their mistress.

A javelin sailed through the air, going straight for Roë, but she dodged it in the nick of time, her body weaving to the side, leaving the throwing spear to pass her by and impale Garen Marethi through the heart. The javelin had come from Isran, the only member of the Dawnguard who still lived and wasn’t locked in close combat. He stood, surrounded by the broken and torn bodies of his people and lifted his massive hammer, but Roë saw on his face that he already knew he’d never get a chance to use his weapon.

As the two fledglings held off the few remaining Dawnguard members, Roë dealt with Isran. She lifted the leader of the Dawnguard off his feet and hurled him upwards, impaling him on the sharp underside of the massive iron chandelier, the spikes penetrating his screaming body and keeping him suspended as he died, his blood raining on Roë.

The last of the Dawnguard soldiers chopped the Altmer vampire’s skull in two his axe, but the Redguard whelp drove her dagger between the man’s shoulder blades an instant later.

Silence fell and the slaughter was over. Only Roë and the ebony-skinned vampire remained. It was unfortunate that Garen had not survived, but better him than Roë.

“Wait outside,” she commanded the fledgling in the growling voice of her noble form.

The girl did as she was told, and as Roë shifted back, put on the clothes she found in a nearby cupboard and surveyed the carnage, hating herself and revelling in her power at the same time, she came to a realization. She’d slaughtered all the Dawnguard members, but one thing was missing.

The ground lay strewn with butchered bodies, but none of them belonged to the Dovahkiin. 


	62. Death Incarnate

 

**Death Incarnate**

**In the mud**

 

She had a choice. She could lie here, naked, cold, in the mud, or she could get up, rinse the muck off her and put her clothes on. Her shoulder still burned from the arrow wound, and all her bones felt painful and brittle. The healing spells the old man had cast were still slowly doing their work. She didn’t know if she was fit to walk, or run, or do anything.

Before she could make the choice, a warm object nudged the back of her head. Again. She lifted her face out of the mud and saw a black horse’s muzzle hovering in front of her eyes.

Shadowmere had saved her and how he’d come back to take her back to Sanctuary. There, she’d have to report to Astrid that she’d succeeded in making the Emperor’s soup taste slightly peculiar. Astrid would win no matter how it went – either she’d have the victory of Siari fleeing and being out of her hair forever, or she’d disgrace her pseudo-daughter by blaming her for the botched assassination attempt. Nobody would believe Siari, everybody would think she was trying to dodge the blame for the failure by implicating Astrid.

Trying to get to her hands and feet on shaky, painful limbs, she recalled everything that had happened. She’d tried to poison the Emperor’s soup and had succeeded, except she’d fallen for the old switcheroo and given the soup a slight tinge of liquorice. There had been a chase, to the tower, and from there, she’d taken her own life, or at least attempted to, by jumping into the river far below. There’d been an arrow too, as if that would have made a difference.

But before she’d jumped, Maro had said something… something about Sanctuary.

Fuck, Sanctuary! _Sanctuary_! The bastard had said he was going to slaughter everyone! Oh Sithis, no! She’d be too late already! Damn it! She had to hurry, maybe she could still make it, maybe she could still warn them!

She dragged herself out of the mud, staggered to the small brook nearby and crawled into the cold water, rinsing the filth off her. She crawled back out, grimacing as she put on her clothes, and with a lot of pained effort, hauled herself onto Shawdowmere’s back, something she wouldn’t have been able to do had the beast not obligingly kneeled, but before mounting the horse, she tore off a strip of cloth from one of her spare shirts, grabbed some charcoal from the remains of a campfire, and left the piece of fabric lying under a stone at the door of the old man’s cabin, with written on it simply,

 

I’M SO SORRY

 

She was surprised at herself and at how much she actually meant it.

As soon as she was firmly seated, Shadowmere shot off, even faster than he had ever run. In a way, Siari realized as she spent the ride half-conscious with her head on the beast’s manes, in a way this was good news. If Shadowmere was galloping hell for leather, it meant that not only did he know Sanctuary was in danger, but it also meant he still saw a chance to make it in time. The Night Mother must have sent out a cry for help to the beast. Did She know her Listener was still alive? Somehow Siari didn’t think so.

They thundered across the plains, through mountain passes and through forests, Shadowmere not slowing down even once, even as the foam flew from his lips. Even this daedric beast had its limits.

Siari slowly felt herself convalesce, the pain gradually lessening despite the constant shocks from Shadowmere’s galloping, and her mind slowly becoming more focused, her memories more clear. The Penitus Oculatus, the fuckers had reneged on their deal with Astrid, and that bastard Maro had given the order to exterminate the Brotherhood. Everyone had simply betrayed everyone. She felt her teeth clench in disgust, and forced them to let go.

She blasted past Falkreath at dusk, her gut cramped as she came nearer and nearer to Sanctuary. Shadowmere was giving his everything, neighing and whining in effort as he thundered through the forest south of the town, clearing the last distance to Sanctuary.

As Shadowmere’s last energy dwindled, Siari only felt herself become stronger and stronger, and when the door to Sanctuary was only a minute away, she realized she was back to full strength, her body healed and ready for action. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary yet, rather than no longer necessary at all.

Shadowmere took her to the edge of the forest, in sight of the rock face, before abruptly stopping, its legs shaking. As soon as Siari had hopped off, the beast collapsed on the grass, spent. Siari checked to see if its flanks were still moving up and down, and as soon as she’d made sure, she sprinted towards Sanctuary.

What she saw before she reached the door made her heart briefly stop.

Upside down, hung from the tree branches and then nailed to the trunk by more than a dozen of arrows, was Festus Krex, the old man left outside as a trophy, or a warning, or maybe just a pointless display of cruelty. She clapped a hand over her mouth, tears burning in her eyes as her heart literally, physically hurt from the sight.

She was too late! The cheerful, slightly patronizing old mage would never raid the pantry for sweetrolls again.

Maybe… maybe she could still save some people. The door stood open, and there were noises coming from inside. The fight was still going on! She ran inside, down the cave, her boots clapping on the stone. She saw Veezara’s body on the ground, an arrow through his forehead. Oh Sithis, no!

She sped past him, fresh tears blurring her vision, and emerged into the atrium. She didn’t even notice the smell of refined oil, her world simply shrunk to the three fighting figures before her. A massive werewolf swept its claws across the face of one of the Imperial soldiers, raking his face open and breaking his neck, but before Siari could reach them, the second soldier had thrust her spear forward, the tip sinking into the werewolf’s body, upward through his vital organs. Arnbjorn fell, and the Penitus Oculatos member climbed on his dying body, cutting his roars of furious pain short with her short sword.

Siari skidded to a halt behind the woman, and noticed the long blonde hair. This was the bitch who had shot her with the arrow in Solitude. Still unnoticed, she grabbed the long, bronze poker out of the fireplace behind the blonde Bosmer, and as the soldier still sat on her hands and knees, Siari roared and rammed the poker up through the seat of her leather pants, impaling her with all her strength, so hard the poker’s dull tip came out, emerging upward just below the Bosmer’s ribcage.

The woman let out a shrieking cry and fell to her side, the poker’s handle sticking out her backside. Then she noticed the bloody tip, and realized what had happened to her, wailing in horrified agony. Siari didn’t end her suffering, and not even because she didn’t have the time to finish her. She ran on, to the Night Mother’s chamber, and movement from the narrow air shaft caught her eye – she was just in time to see two small legs kicking the air and then disappearing up into the ceiling.

At least one of them would survive this night.

“S… Siari.”

That was Gabriella’s voice! The Dunmer waddled closer, cradling her bleeding arm.

“What happened? They just…” Her burning eyes were fraught with confusion. “Did you betray us? Please, Siari, say it wasn’t you?”

Siari took her by the shoulders, looked her in the eye and shook her head. When Gabriella found out who had really doomed them all, perhaps she’d wish it had been Siari.

“Thank Sithis…” Gabriella breathed. “We have to – ”

“Two more, over here!”

Three Penitus Oculatus soldiers came running into the Night Mother’s chamber, blocking the exit. “Butcher them all! Death to the assassins!”

One of the soldiers swung his weapon, slicing low, but Siari backstepped just in time, swiping her dagger at his face but missing it by a hair’s breadth. Gabriella, unable to fight with her injured arm, staggered backwards, clumsily dodging the second soldier’s sword swing. The third had a staff, holding it high, and Siari was just in time to fall flat, sending the fire streaking over her.

The soldier nearest her brought his sword up to nail her to the ground, but before he could, Siari’s dagger flashed, chopping into his achilles’ tendon, severing it and sending him screaming to the ground.

As she got to her feet, she saw, from the corner of her eye, the other soldier swinging his sword downwards, chopping into Gabriella’s skull. Her bunkmate hung shaking from the blade, saliva running from the corners of her mouth and mixing with the blood that streamed down.

Siari roared, diving at Gabriella’s murderer and body-slammed into him, dodging another streak of fire without even realizing. She fell on top of the soldier and rammed her dagger down into his face, time and time, and time again, until his screams stopped and his face was only blood.

The next moment, something hard thwacked into her head and she fell over, the mage raising his staff to break her skull.

But before he could, a scimitar flashed behind him, hacking into his back, his eyes going wide. He fell, making place for Nazir to step in. “Siari, thank Sithis you’re alive!” Then he noticed Gabriella, her head split. “Oh Gabriella,” he moaned. “What happened here? How did they find us?”

Siari pointed at herself, then shook her head.

“Of course it wasn’t you,” Nazir, said quickly, kneeling by Gabriella. Her jaw still moved. Siari came to sit by her, tears streaming down her face. The only thing Gabriella was still capable of doing was snaking her shaking hand towards Siari and lacing her fingers into those of her bunkmate. Siari held her hand to her face, feeling it grow colder as Gabriella died.

“We have to go,” Nazir said, taking Siari by the shoulders. “There might be more. We have to survive,” he said to her, “We have to survive, for Gabriella and Veezara and Arnbjorn and everyone else.”

Siari didn’t want to survive. Not right now. She just wanted to sit next to Gabriella, crying over her death, and over the realization she only now had. Now that it was too late to tell her, too late to say she’d never had a friend like her, too late to say she’d enjoyed their late night, one-sided chats so much, too late to say she’d cared so deeply for her, now she realized the feelings she’d unknowingly hidden from herself, thinking she was incapable of feeling them.

Nazir tightened his grip and pulled Siari to her feet. “We can’t help her, not now. We have to survive.”

A hoarse, gurgling laugh came from behind them. The Penitus mage, his fingers feebly pulling his staff closer and closing around it, rasped, “You’re not surviving this. Not one of you.”

The head of the staff emitted an orange glow, and before Nazir could bring his weapon down, the weapon belched out a fan of fire, igniting the refined oil the Imperials had drenched the caves with. Nazir’s blade came down, beheading the mage, but it was too late, the flames eagerly clawed out, greedily licking around and spreading over the oil at a terrifying pace.

“Siari!” Nazir shouted over the flames. “Come on!”

Siari grabbed him by his cloak as the heat rose. There was one person they hadn’t found yet. He understood her look of urgency, but shook his head. “We can’t look for Astrid now! We’ll burn alive if we don’t – ”

Siari opened her mouth and, for the first time in years, let her voice cry out. “Ahhih!”

“Siari, we can’t look for her now!” The heat became blistering, the flames roaring higher, covering the entire wall of the Night Mother’s chamber and already spreading through the rest of Sanctuary.

“ _Ahhih!_ ”

“Siari, come _on_!” Nazir took her by her upper arm and began dragging her outside, but he had to abort his attempt when the heat from the flames proved utterly impassable, trapping them both inside the Night Mother’s resting place.

_“Ahhih!”_

_You must save yourself, my Listener_

The Night Mother’s voice sounded clearly in her head.

“Ahhih!”

“Sithis,” Nazir breathed. “We’re trapped. We’re… there’s no way out.”

 _Come to me, my Listener. Seek refuge in my arms_.

There was no point shouting for Astrid. If she was even here at all, she was dead or would be soon.

“Siari,” Nazir shouted at her, blisters already breaking out on his skin. She could feel the heat searing her own face too. “We’re going to die here. I just want you to know that it’s been – ”

She shook her head to shut him up and grabbed him by the front of his cloak, dragging him towards the Night Mother’s sarcophagus.

“What are you – ”

The sarcophagus opened, its doors parting to reveal a desiccated, mummified corpse, the grin of death on its withered face.

_I will keep you safe, my Listener. Come into my arms._

“You want me to go _in there_?”

Siari ignored Nazir’s protest and pushed him inside, pressing herself against him as the doors closed.

There was only darkness, the warmth of Nazir’s arms around her and the sound of two beating hearts and two breathing mouths. Not even the roar of the flames penetrated the sarcophagus’ lid.

_Close your eyes, Listener. You are safe here._

“There’s… no heat. No noise,” she heard Nazir say. “And the oxygen… This is…”

She gently placed her finger on his lips to stop him from speaking, and closed her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder. His hand slowly went down her lower back and came to rest on her behind, but it didn’t matter. She supposed he just needed some human warmth.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before the sarcophagus doors swung open, once again revealing the cave, this time entirely dark save for the light coming in from the ventilation shaft above. Everything was burned or melted, the corpses of the soldiers and Gabriella’s body charred to black. She hadn’t felt it, Siari tried to reassure herself.

_The storm has passed. Now, only one thing remains for you, Listener._

Find Astrid. That was the only thing that needed to be done. To find her misguided, broken-hearted mother who had doomed them all because she’d felt betrayed by her favourite child. If she’d known it’d come to this… Should she have been more understanding? Siari was surprised to admit to herself that, yes, she should have shown Astrid some empathy, some support. Astrid hadn’t made it easy, but still… Siari had failed her. Not betrayed her, but failed her nonetheless. All of this could have been avoided if she’d just been able to show Astrid the love and patience her ‘mother’ had given to her in the beginning.

Nazir said something about going outside to check for survivors, but Siari didn’t hear him. She didn’t have to go outside. Astrid was somewhere in Sanctuary, she was certain of it. And despite the horror she’d inflicted on her family, Siari knew Astrid needed her daughter.

She walked the silent halls, the burned bodies silent witnesses to the slaughter that had happened here. Imperials and assassins, mortal enemies in life, now united in death, spending eternity together. Siari only hoped they were all at peace now.

As she wandered the halls, her heart was in complete turmoil. What was all this? The sudden caring about people, even enemies? Those realizations hitting her one after the other, things she didn’t think she could feel, assaulting her mind with their gut-wrenching reality? Tears she shed for people other than herself, love she felt for other people than herself, what was all this?

And the worst was still to come. She knew seeing Astrid, one way or the other, would make all the dams come tumbling down. She dreaded it, but anticipated it all the same. The worst thing about it would be all the accountability. Having to face all the things she’d done, face them as more then ‘jobs’ or ‘assignments’, but as people whose lives she’d ended. But she knew that if she ever wanted to live again, rather than just being a mindless, self-serving machine, she’d have to let it in and accept everything that came with it.

She closed her eyes when she opened the blackened door to Astrid’s office, not knowing what she’d find there, but knowing it all the same.

“My child…” a broken, failing voice came. “You survived… thank Sithis.”

Siari opened her eyes and she could feel it, physically, inside her chest, her heart slowly tearing in two.

Astrid lay there, splayed on the ground, smoke curling up from her body, everything but the left side of her face and her left arm burned to a horror of black and red. It looked as if the leather of her clothes had melted into her skin. One of her eyes was gone, turned to a milky blue-white ball resting in a blackened, cracked socket. The other was still lucid, looking straight at Siari.

She fell to her knees next to Astrid, taking her good hand.

“What have I done? To you, to all of us?” Astrid whispered, her voice as dry as her skin. She must be suffering immensely. “Look upon… what my desire for control has wrought.”

Siari could say nothing, she could only weep for Astrid, as she’d wept for all her brothers and sisters, only even more. They’d driven each other to this, by thinking only of themselves and letting their own pride blind them to the other’s needs, which had been so simple to fulfil if they’d only bothered to look.

And Astrid knew it too, realized it far too late, just like her.

“I wish you could speak, Siari,” Astrid said. “I wish I could hear you say something, just once. To hear you say you forgive me. Or at least that you still love me.”

But she couldn’t. All she could do was hold Astrid’s hand in both of hers, and hold it against her cheek.

“I’ve always loved you, Siari. Please don’t ever doubt that. I’ve done things… protected you from more things than you know. But in the end… I was blinded. By my own pride, by my fear that everything was falling apart around me.”

Siari knew. But she only knew it now, when it was far too late.

“I’m sorry, Siari. So sorry.”

So was she.

“I prayed to the Night Mother for one final contract. And she answered. She sent her angel to fulfil it.”

It was only now that Siari saw the silver circle around her mother’s body, and the melted lumps of wax that had been candles before the caves had started to burn.

No, no, no, Astrid couldn’t ask this of her.

“I performed the Black Sacrament for the last time. What I’ve done to you… to the Night Mother, to all of us… I have to pay the price for it. She wants this… and I want this.”

Siari shook her head furiously, rocking back and forth, still holding Astrid’s hand.

“I know… and I’m sorry to ask this last thing of you, but… This must happen, and the only one who has the right is you. And I… want to sleep quietly, I need the hand that closes my eyes to belong to the only living person I still love more than anything.”

Astrid couldn’t ask her to do such a thing. To murder her own mother. She’d seen one mother die already, she couldn’t bear another.

“Take my knife, Siari.” Beside Astrid lay her weapon, a curved, wicked-looking thing with a jagged hand guard. It wasn’t an ordinary weapon, but that was all that Astrid had ever divulged on the subject. “Release me, and exact the Night Mother’s justice.”

She felt snot run down her upper lip, but couldn’t care. She could only weep and hold Astrid’s hand. How had they let it come to this? How could they both have been so prideful, so unwilling to see what the consequences of their childish power struggle would be? All she wanted was to turn back time, even for a little bit, to give Astrid the time and consideration she’d needed. She hadn’t asked for much, just understanding. Just a little effort could have stopped all this.

“Siari, my child… please. I suffer. I suffer and I can’t be saved. Show me your forgiveness by ending the pain and sorrow.”

Siari still couldn’t bring herself to pick up the dagger.

“I will die, Siari. Nothing can stop that now. Let it be the hand of love that brings me release.”

The Night Mother had answered her Sacrament, and even if it hadn’t been performed, she would still never have suffered Astrid to live after what she’d done. Siari had learned forgiveness and love in these few moments, but she knew the Night Mother would never know those feelings.

“Siari. End my pain.”

Her trembling fingers closed around the handle of the dagger. She’d always thought that when the time came, she’d eliminate Astrid as easily as she’d committed all the other murders. But now that the time was there, all she wanted was for Astrid to live, and for things to go back to the way they had been before. But her mother was right. She had to be the one to do it, and the fact that it caused her unbearable pain to do so was exactly the reason why.

She set the tip of the weapon against Astrid’s chest, right next to her sternum.

“Goodbye, sweet child. I should never have doubted you.”

_And I should never have dismissed you._

“I’m sorry for everything. And I love you.”

Siari knew Astrid saw she felt the same way. Then she closed her eyes, and without further hesitation, pushed the handle of the dagger down. She felt the burned skin crack under the blade’s pressure, and then the smooth sliding as the steel went between her ribs and pierced her heart.

She heard Astrid suck in air sharply through her teeth, and when she opened her eyes, her mother’s pain was over.

It struck her like a rolling wave, an avalanche of emotion, all the things she’d denied for years, crashing down on her. The flowers in the hand of the beggar she’d murdered, the warmth of the dying girl in Jorrvaskr, pressed against her body, gurgling as the life poured out of her, the eyes of the other girl when her boot drove the dagger inside her lungs, the leader fighting to his last breath despite knowing he would not survive, the horror of the marrying couple being crushed by the falling gargoyle, Lanaris the young guardswoman, her life cut short for Siari’s convenience, suffering the indignity of having her defenseless body stripped of its clothing and found by her colleagues the same way, the face of Commander Maro, dead for all intents and purposes, murdered along with his son in all ways except the physical.

They hadn’t been scenery, they hadn’t been targets, they’d been _people_. Living breathing people, with hopes and dreams and problems and feelings, and she’d taken everything away from them. The beggar would never pick flowers and savour the small things. The people in Jorrvaskr would never realize their dream of being admired fighters for right, the marrying couple would never see the peace between Empire and Stormcloak they’d hoped to embody, Lanaris would never marry and sing her child to sleep, and Commander Maro would forever be a shadow, his revenge hollow as all revenge was, his son never to succeed him and bring him pride when he was an old man.

The three victims she’d killed, their throats cut just so she could save her own meagre life and make an impression on the woman who now lay at her knees, dead and burned beyond recognition.

She hugged herself, rocking back and forth, wailing and wailing the reality of it all hit home. She should have let Astrid kill her right there instead of choosing her own life over that of three innocent people, a life that had gone on to cause nothing but misery, death and destruction to all the lives that had touched it since.

And yet she lived, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t just. She wailed on, Astrid’s hand on one hand, and her knife in the other, crying tears of release as the emotions she’d always lied to herself about never having, crashed down on top of her, their tide tossing her around in their immense power.

What had she done? How many innocent lives had she destroyed? And how many guilty ones? She had no right to either, not even Grelod. She’d done it all just so she could feel like she could belong somewhere, just so she could tell herself she was the chosen of some kind of god, some kind of Daedric entity who had chosen her as her chief agent. All the pride at being the Listener was smashed apart by the wave of guilt and grief that washed her away.

She threw her head back and screamed, cursing the vile entity that had made her do all these terrible things. She only produced inarticulate sounds, but she didn’t care, all she wanted to do was let out her pain and hatred for everything that had brought her to this point. She screamed until her voice broke, one curse after another, all at the Night Mother for all the things she’d caused, all at Sithis for being the Night Mother.

When her voice, weak from years of disuse, cracked and all she could produce was a wheeze, she expected the Night Mother to speak in her head, threatening her for screaming such horrible things at her, or trying to soothe her and manipulate her into doing even more terrible things, but there was only silence.

Good. She didn’t need the rotten, accursed Night Mother spouting more venom in her head for what she was about to do.

She took the fringe on her forehead in one hand, and set the sharp edge of Astrid’s knife, still red with blood, against her throat, breathing furiously through her nose and feeling her face contorted in a terrible grimace.

Perhaps there was a way, somehow, to reunite with Astrid and the others and become the family they’d all wanted to be, but she doubted it. Neither she nor Astrid would go to a place where they’d be allowed the joy of reunion.

She swallowed, feeling her larynx push against the knife edge, the metal shaking in her hand.

She could do it. Just draw the blade across her throat and bleed out, letting her blood mix with that of Astrid and joining her mother in a final embrace. It would be the easy thing to do.

But she’d denied her own terrible deeds to herself all her life, and she had to stop running.

She sent the knife flying, hearing it strike the stone wall and clatter to the ground, then broke down, sobbing into her hands.

Not like this. She didn’t have the right to release, she didn’t deserve to just walk out of this life and escape the payment for her misdeeds.

There was no voice in her head, not this time, but she still knew what she had to do.


	63. Eye for an Eye

**Eye for an Eye**

**Not far from Irkngthand**

“I mean, why even Nightingales, you know?” Brynjolf rambled on as Falnas simply listened with a grin. “Nightingales are, like, these birds that sing all the time. Tiny birds. Pretty, tiny birds. Completely unintimidating. And they sing. All the time. I mean, they’re not quiet for a moment.” He stopped walking and regarded Falnas with a completely mystified face. “I’m just… why would you name your chosen trio of thieves after a tiny, noisy bird?”

Falnas chuckled. “I’m guessing, same reason she made an infallible key and then wants it to remain unused in a pedestal.”

“Yeah, but I mean, you can chalk that one up to ‘moves in mysterious ways’. But the name is just… nonsensical.”

Karliah stood a ways ahead, her hands in her sides, wondering why they’d stopped.

“I don’t know, Brynjolf,” Falnas laughed. “But go ahead and ask her next time we see her.”

He looked away and scratched his beard. “Mm. Not such an appealing prospect.”

“Thought so. Come on, Karliah’s going to think we’re plotting something.”

Their companion insisted to scout ahead every so often and let them catch up, saying she wanted to take no chances with Mercer. Falnas didn’t blame her.

“The boys are having fun?” Karliah asked as they joined her, her face half amused, half disapproving. “Care to enlighten me?”

“Don’t ask,” Falnas said, “He’ll be rambling for hours.”

“But it’s true,” Brynjolf went on. “Why on Nirn would you pick the name Nightingales?”

“He still on about that?” Karliah asked with a grin, her concern falling away.

Falnas nodded. “I think he’ll probably keep talking about it in his sleep tonight.”

“Assuming he doesn’t spend the night tossing and turning from the horrible nightmares Nocturnal sends him for his irreverence.”

Brynjolf’s face went slack. “Do you… do you think she’d…?”

“For your constant blasphemy?” Karliah prodded him further, crossing her eyes and raising an eyebrow. “You’re talking about a Daedra Prince here, not some uppity noble.”

“But… I mean, I’m only trying to…”

Falnas could watch it no longer. “Brynjolf, for Vivec’s sake, she’s leading you on.”

Karliah gave him a scolding look for being such a spoilsport.

“We have work to do, Karliah,” Falnas told her with a grin. “We’re almost there, right?”

“M-hm. Mercer’s going to have eyes like saucers when he sees the three of us interrupting him in the middle of his eye-stealing.”

They _were_ close. They’d trekked northwest for a day, first heading for Windhelm, then following the river west, skirting a snowy mountain range and having their dinner of freshly-caught fish at its foot. It was close to midnight now, and with their bellies full of fish and their heads full of dreams of loot, glory and especially vengeance, they’d climbed the last slope to see Irkngthand lie below them, nestled against the mountain face, an eerily symmetrical and mathematical construction, like only the Dwemer had made them.

“Hey, but…” Brynjolf thought out loud as they stood looking down at the ruin. “What if Mercer opened the doors to the ruin and then used the Skeleton Key to lock them again?”

The realization sunk in with the others until Karliah simply said, “Shut up, Brynjolf.”

They descended the mountainside, Falnas taking a brief moment to speak to Karliah in private. “Karliah…”

She smiled. “I know what you’re about to say.”

“You do?”

“Mm-hm. And you’re right.”

Wait, this didn’t make sense?

“Hold on, right about what?”

She stopped walking and took his hands in hers. “I should move on. I loved Gallus deeply, but I know he wouldn’t want me to be lonely.”

Falnas’ heart beat faster. “You… know that better than I possibly could. I… wanted to ask, if this was over, perhaps we could…” He was crazy nervous. It wasn’t something he was used to.

But thankfully, Karliah smiled at him. “We should… start small. With a nice dinner or something. But yes, I’d… love to get to know you better?”

Dinner was a good start, and not in the Ragged Flagon. A decent dinner, with candlelight, good food and no sewer smell. Starting small was good. After all, they had all the time in the world. Or they would have after this was over. “I’m… really looking forward to it.”

Her smile widened, making her even more beautiful. “So would I.” Damn, he really was in love.

“You two done being smitten teenagers?”

Brynjolf stood waiting on the path ahead, his hands in his sides.

“No,” Karliah said, giving Falnas a loving smile. “Not for a long time.”

His heart thudded in his chest. He was so happy he wanted to run down to Brynjolf and plant a big fat kiss on his cheek. But he was right, business first. Once Mercer was dealt with, there would be plenty of time for stomach-residing butterflies. “We’re with you, Brynjolf.”

“Good,” he said with a grim nod. “The butt of Mercer awaits our boot prints.”

With these immortal words, they began their assault on Irkgnthand. Weapons drawn, Karliah and Falnas flanked the door while Brynjolf inspected the mechanism.

“Lock’s still turned,” he muttered, prompting a sigh of relief from the others. “No traps that I can see.”

“Be careful though,” Karliah advised. “He knows that the only ones who could come after him, are thieves as resourceful as him.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Brynjolf grunted, running his hands over the edges of the door to feel for mechanisms or switches. “But it’s clear as far as I can tell.”

“Never once was a hero made by sitting outside the door,” Falnas said. “Let’s go.”

Brynjolf nodded and gave the door a push, side-stepping as it opened to avoid any possible traps they might have missed.

The door opened with a quiet creak and struck the walls of the corridor with a modest bonk.

“So far, so good,” Karliah said.

In they went, carefully tiptoeing through the creepy, deserted hallway of the Dwemer ruin. Everything in the place was angled. Straight. Measured.

“Trap,” Karliah stopped them. “Over there. Pressure plate, see?”

Brynjolf kneeled by it. “It’s been activated. Probably Mercer blundering into it.”

Karliah let out a chortling laugh. “Yes, Mercer was always notoriously bad at avoiding traps. That, and refraining from shouting taunts in battle.”

“Still, the mechanism might have reset. Step over it”, Falnas said, “and we should be fine.”

The continued their journey, into the bowels of the ruin. Perfectly symmetrical stairs led them downward, every step exactly the same height as the ones above and below it. The masonry had no seams, the stones set perfectly against each other. Cold gems, set in bronze-looking armatures, lit the hallways.

They descended another creepily equal staircase, then crept through an S-shaped corridor.

“Hold,” Falnas said, raising his hand. “Another trap.” He was rather proud of having spotted it before Karliah. It was a luminous gem, set in the wall at chest height, which shone an almost-invisible ray onto a tiny mirror on the other side of the corridor. He’d never seen such a trap, but with the Dwemer, you could always count on surprises. Doubtless something nasty would happen if the light was broken.

“Huh,” Brynjolf remarked, the admiration clear in his voice. “Those nutty Dwemer.”

“Mm. We should duck under it.”

They did, Brynjolf going first, chuckling, “Those Dwemer are going to have to do better than that to – ” He yelped as a _clack_ sounded underfoot and a spike sprang up, driven straight through his foot. He lost balance, but thankfully didn’t break the beam above him. He toppled to the ground, holding his ankle. “Aah!” he screamed. “What the… aaahh, damn it, that _hurts_!”

“Stay still,” Karliah told him. “We’ll be right there.”

He rocked on his butt, holding his foot, blood running between his fingers.

“This wasn’t the Dwemer. It was Mercer,” Karliah snarled, ducking under the beam. “We should have known.”

They really should have. “Rookie mistake,” Falnas admitted. They’d found one trap and thought that was all. It was an error new kids made, not experienced thieves like them. They’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book: let them spot one trap so they stop looking and blunder into the next.

Karliah pulled the spike from Brynjolf’s foot, provoking more angry growls, then took his boot off, applying some ointment on the wound, then bandaging it. The spike had been nasty, but it had passed clean between his metatarsals, doing only meat damage. Still, Brynjolf would be hobbling for a few more days after this, at least. Thankfully it hadn’t been poisoned. Mercer must not have had the opportunity to bring any.

“You going to be alright?” Falnas asked.

Grunting, Brynjolf got to his feet, hopping on one leg. “I’m on to you,” he murmured. “Trying to get rid of me so you can snuggle… in peace.” He winced as he put his weight on his injured foot. At least he still had his sense of humour.

“Can you walk?” Karliah asked, supporting him.

“I think so, just… don’t expect me to lead a charge of Stormcloaks before year’s end.”

“Let’s go.”

“Noise trap,” Karliah pointed out, drawing their attention to the gossamer-thin wire hanging from the high ceiling, connected to a set of chimes almost invisible so high in the darkness.

“How’d he even get up there?” Falnas muttered, looking up at the chimes, hanging at least five metres up in the air.

“Mercer must… have a hidden climbing… talent,” Brynjolf hissed, limping on.

Their journey was nerve-wracking, and progress slow, every step careful and deliberate, and only made after checking every inch of stone and air.

It was simply impossible to stay so concentrated on their surroundings for so long, but they tried nonetheless, knowing their lives depended on it.

Mercer wouldn’t be far away now, but there was no point getting themselves killed trying to reach him faster. Chiselling out the Eyes would take a lot of time, and it’d be a ridiculous coincidence if he finished the job just before they caught him. The odds of that happening were –

_Clack!_

Falnas only had time to turn his face away and raise his arm in reflex as a yellow jet of flame blasted out from an opening between two stones.

The heat was blistering, but despite the fire and the surprise, he immediately dropped to the ground and rolled, putting the flames out. It hurt like Oblivion, but he knew that it was either that or let the flames devour him. Weight fell on top of him as Karliah and Brynjolf threw themselves onto him to help put out the flames.

When they were convinced the fire was out, they sat up on their knees. Karliah leaned forward, inspecting him for injuries. “Falnas, are you alright?”

He sat up on his ass and looked at his shoulder and arm. His cloak had partially burned away, but the Nightingale armour looked undamaged. He felt pain under it, the skin of his shoulder and upper arm burned from the heat, but Nocturnal’s gift had kept the open flames back. “I’m… alright, I think.”

“Sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. Just minor burns. If not for Nocturnal’s armour…”

Brynjolf sat grinning at him. “Too bad she couldn’t protect all of you, though.”

He touched his face and skull and realized what he meant. His cheek and temple were seared from the heat, but his hair had suffered most, burnt to a stubble on the side of his head. “Aw, really?”

Karliah smiled. “It’ll grow back.”

“I heard shaving the side of your head is quite the rage,” Brynjolf said with a wide grin. “We should colour it in some outlandish hue. Let’s get you some heavy-rimmed eyeglasses to go with it.”

Falnas chuckled as Karliah helped him up. “Piss off, Brynjolf.”

“Seriously though,” Karliah said, “this could have ended much worse. We can’t get careless.”

She was right. That was exactly what had happened. He’d started thinking about Mercer, his thoughts had started to form a chain, and his concentration had waned. Damn Dwemer ruins. Drop your attention for a gods-damned moment and you were ass-buggered, and scumbag Mercer’s tampering only made it worse.

“Will you be alright?” Karliah asked once more, concerned.

“Don’t worry, it’s not bad.” His face stung every time he spoke or moved, and the skin on his shoulder and arm felt like there was a cheese grater grinding against it. He’d punch the snot out of Mercer for that one even though the trap hadn’t even been his.

The ruin took them deeper into the bowels of Nirn, and then led them upwards again, back in the direction of the surface. Their thighs burned as they ascended staircase after staircase, ever mindful of traps. Falnas felt sweat beading on his forehead because of the exertion and the burns. This shit didn’t have to go on for much longer.

“Shh,” Karliah hissed quietly, stopping them all in their tracks.

They kept quiet and listened, and Falnas could hear it too. A gentle, repetitive clinking sound. All three knew what it meant. It was a chisel carefully chipping stone away.

“Mercer,” Karliah whispered. “He’s trying to get the Eyes of the Falmer out of the statue. We’re close. Masks and hoods off. I want him to see our faces.”

They crept around the corner and looked out at a huge room, as high as it was wide, with water standing about two metres below them. They were on a ledge that simply ended, hanging over the half-flooded atrium. Above them was a ceiling, metres high, with the mouths of pipes hanging open, yawning downwards to cycle air in and out of the ruin.

And before them, half-submerged, was the statue of the Falmer, a massive stone effigy of a Snow Elf, sitting down with its legs crossed and proudly holding a torch. The statue was as high as seven men, at least. Perhaps more, depending on how deep the water was.

And there, hanging from the statue’s eyelids, his foot resting on the thing’s chin, was Mercer Frey, carefully chipping at the stone surrounding far and away the biggest gem Falnas had ever seen, a shiny egg twice the size of a man’s head, cut to an otherworldly sheen. One gem was already removed, lying on the platform made by the book the statue was holding, gently placed there in a protective cushion of fur. The empty eye socket was carefully chipped away to a ghastly, open wound.

The figure of Mercer, hanging from the statue, slumped its shoulders and let its head droop in bothered annoyance. He hopped down in two deft bounds, landing on the book next to the already-freed gem.

“So, Karliah, you’ve followed me here,” he spoke, the echo in the room so powerful it carried his voice with only little effort. “And you’ve brought two flunkies. Figured there’d be three of you. Poor Nocturnal, thinking I’m despairing at the sight.” He paused, cocking his head. “Weren’t you dead, ashface?”

Falnas only said back, “I got better.”

“No matter,” he said to them. “You’re too late. One Eye’s already free, and the other won’t last much longer. Once they’re out, you’ll never see me again.”

“So,” Brynjolf shouted at him. “What’s stopping us from killing you right here and taking the Skeleton Key and the Eyes?”

They saw Mercer’s vile grin from all the way on the other side of the chamber. “I’ll tell you what. See, this place has a back door.” He stepped towards the arch in the back wall, near the statue’s elbow. “I’m going to leave that way. I’ll be back to recover the other Eye later. After you three,” he raised his hand, “are just bodies floating in the water.”

He slammed down his hand on a bronze button.

Falnas’ reflexes were lightning quick, and he managed to dive under the portcullis that slammed down from the ceiling, trapping Brynjolf and Karliah on the ledge. Meanwhile, a stone door slowly grated open next to the button Mercer had pushed.

Falnas fell over the edge, and went down head over heels, splashing in the water, thankfully in a relatively deep spot. Falnas got his head above water in time to see Mercer running for the already-dislodged Eye of the Falmer.

“Mercer! Stop right there, you son of a bitch!” Falnas heard Brynjolf scream.

He swam for the statue as fast as he could, hoisting himself up as Mercer grunted in effort as he lifted up the heavy Eye of the Falmer.

‘Go for the Eye, Falnas! Go for the Eye, raaargh!” Brynjolf roared.

Falnas heard a thundering vibration in the earth, and three of the four pipes in the ceiling began to hose out terrifying quantities of water.

He sprinted to Mercer, who moved more slowly, weighted down by the massive jewel, and threw himself at him, body-slamming into his one-time Guild leader and bowling him over. The Eye of the Falmer struck the stone with a hard bonk, striking chips off the statue.

A hard kick struck Falnas in the face and he felt his nose break. Another foot lashed out, this one kicking him in the temple, momentarily sapping his strength. He opened his eyes to see Mercer scoop up the jewel again.

An arrow whizzed overhead and flawlessly found the mechanism button next to the escape route. Mercer was stopped in his tracks as the stone door swung closed again, sparks flying from the button, which now hung in pieces from the copper wire it had been attached to.

“Yeah, Karliah!” Brynjolf cheered as Mercer, gnashing his teeth, took cover behind the statue’s arm.

“Run!” Falnas shouted at them. “The water’s rising!”

“Way back’s blocked,” Karliah yelled back, “we have to get through here.”

Mercer briefly shot out of cover, and with a flawless throw, sent his dagger flying all the way to the other side of the room, Falnas’ heart stopping as he saw it pass between the bars of the portcullis and striking Karliah. Falnas saw Karliah fall, her bow clattering to the ground, through the portcullis and into the water. “Karliah!”

“Only her shoulder,” Brynjolf shouted back. “Get Mercer!”

The water was rising, the level now reaching the book Falnas stood on, slowly creeping up the slanted surface. They were all going to drown here if they found no way out. Karliah had stopped Mercer, but she might have damned them all in doing so.

“Help me with this mechanism,” he heard Brynjolf yell at Karliah.

“You’re not leaving here with the Eye or the Key, Mercer,” Falnas threatened, unsheathing his short sword. It throbbed with power in his hand. With it, he might even stand a chance at taking on Mercer. He couldn’t help Karliah now, all he could do was try to survive Mercer’s deadly skill with a blade.

“Come and get me then, you worthless sack of shit,” Mercer shouted back, emerging from his cover. “I’m getting out of here, one way or another. After I get rid of you, I’m shorting this mechanism and retiring to a beach in Akavir.”

Falnas knew he could waste no time, so he stepped towards Metzger, who came at him, his sword flickering as he twirled it, showing his confidence and making sure Falnas knew what he was up against.

Mercer was insanely fast, and it was only because Falnas felt his own blade jerk in the right direction, that he had the speed to block the swipe. Mercer sliced high, aiming for Falnas’ face, but again, the Nightingale’s sword was guided to block the blow.

Mercer growled, only half impressed. “Seems Nocturnal is giving you a hand. No matter. She won’t save you.”

“Brynjolf, get the… dammit, almost had it!” Falnas heard Karliah shout, but he couldn’t spare a moment to see what they were doing.

Mercer sent two short, quick stabs his way, the Nightingale sword deflecting the first, but the second got through, glancing off Nocturnal’s armour, but not without biting into his side, slicing into the muscles protecting his innards.

Grinning his teeth bare, Mercer thrust his weapon forward again, but this time Falnas was quicker, his foot shooting out and kicking Mercer flawlessly between the legs. The kick wasn’t hard, but the placement was perfect, and Frey staggered back, trying to keep himself from doubling over, one hand on his privates.

Falnas knew he couldn’t hesitate now. He threw himself at Mercer, but tripped over the Eye of the Falmer, once again crashing into him, sending both their swords flying, the weapons clattering over the stone and splashing into the water. They both struck the wet stone hard and rolled over the edge, back into the ice cold water, which had now risen so high the entire book was under water.

A fist struck Falnas in the side, but the blow had its impact diminished due to the resistance of the water. He kicked out, booting Mercer off him. He grabbed hold of the edge of the stone book and meant to hoist himself up, but he felt a hand clawing at his pants, eventually grabbing him by the belt, trying to pull him back under.

He could only perceive a vague shape under the water, but he clearly saw the dagger being pulled, ready to stab him in the gut and unzip him. He kicked out with his knee, cracking his underwater enemy’s jaw. Mercer flailed in the water for a moment, but he didn’t let go of the dagger.

Mercer emerged from the water, holding his dagger high and ready to plunge into Falnas’ throat. Falnas punched the Nord off him, and again they both went underwater, but Falnas’ hand had managed to pull something with it.

“You want this, asshole?” Falnas roared as his head broke the surface. “Take it then!”

He pulled as hard as he could.

With a loud splash, the Eye of the Falmer fell in the water, smacking straight into Mercer’s skull with a chilling _bonk_. The fingers that held Falnas let go, and the water turned red, bubbles rising to the surface as Mercer sank.

Falnas held his breath and dove, snatching the Skeleton Key from Mercer Frey’s belt. The old Guild Master’s gaze crossed his one more time before he went to the bottom, trailing red bubbles, a look of dazed confusion still in his eyes, his arms cradled around the massive gem.

Falnas kicked himself upwards and emerged above water in time to see Karliah and Brynjolf conquer the portcullis’ mechanism, Brynjolf holding it up with a grimace as Karliah slipped under it, and Karliah doing the same for him, while Falnas found purchase on the book and stood up, the water now waist-high, submerging over half of the entire statue.

“The mechanism!” Kaliah shouted. “Fix it or we’ll all drown!”

Falnas waded through the water, towards the button, while Karliah and Brynjolf jumped in, swimming his way.

The entire thing was busted beyond repair, Falnas could see it right away. Mercer had spoken of “shorting it”, but Falnas had no idea what that meant. He had no knowledge of these bedamned Dwemer mechanisms. By Almalexia’s shit-stained knickers, Karliah should have just let the bastard escape. His hands trembled as he tried to manipulate the button, and it wasn’t just from the cold.

“How are we doing?” Karliah said, coming to stand beside him, wiping the water from her face.

“You broke it,” Falnas snapped. “That’s how we’re doing.”

Brynjolf joined them. “There’s got to be a way to – ”

“This thing’s completely ruined,” Falnas barked at him. “We’re stuck here! And if we don’t figure something out, we’re going to drown like rats along with that asshole Mercer!” He blew a wad of blood out of his nostrils, the pain of his nose forgotten.

“So we’re fucked, basically?” Brynjolf asked, his voice shaking with unconcealed despair.

“No,” Karliah assured him. “We’ll find a way.”

The water still roared with no sign of stopping, and as if to silence Karliah, the button’s socket was now submerged, making a sharp, loud _pop_ and disappearing under water.

“The water’s going to go all the way to the ceiling,” Karliah muttered. The level seemed to be rising even faster now, the water coming to their shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before they’d have to tread water. The swirling, frothing mass already came to their chins, and still the pipes dumped more and more into the atrium.

“Cuntface Mercer,” Falnas could only say.

There was no way out, they could all see it. There was only walls and the ceiling. Any doorways they may have been able to use were all underwater now, the corridors behind them flooded. The water would rise and rise, until they clung to the ceiling with their faces, breathing in the last bit of air they could, before that too was taken and they’d spend horrible minutes in agony, pounding at the ceiling, kicking their legs and drowning.

“Falnas,” Karliah said, taking his hands. “I want you to know that – ”

“The pipe!” Brynjolf screamed, his voice shrill. “The water comes from three of them, but the air’s gotta go somewhere, right? Otherwise this place couldn’t fill up. The fourth pipe! The ventilation shaft! It’s our only hope!”

They were treading water now, the ceiling only a metre and a half from their heads.

“You’re right Brynjolf,” Karliah shouted, her voice a mix of panic and euphoria, “We’ve got to try!”

“If there’s no grill or grate to keep people out who had exactly that idea,” Falnas pointed out as they swam for the middle of the room. He immediately regretted saying it.

“Yeah! Well!” Brynjolf snapped at him, turning his head, his wet hair whipping around. “We’ll just have to hope, won’t we?” Brynjolf was a few metres ahead, swimming faster than the Dunmer. Swimming was something Nords were simply better at, though he figured all three of them wished they were Argonian right about now.

The water rose even further, and as they swam closer to the pipe’s mouth, they all realized the metal tube was their only hope.

They reached it just as the water crept up to the pipe’s mouth. One person could fit, but not three. “Brynjolf,” Falnas shouted to the Nord when he reached it. “Go! Don’t wait for us, go!”

“Oh man,” Brynjolf said, desperate, “this pipe better not have any obstructions!” With that, he went underwater.

Karliah and Falnas made it too, the water only leaving around thirty centimetres between its surface and the ceiling. And still more came. “Go, Karliah, go! I’m right behind you!”

“Don’t die, alright?” Karliah shouted over the roar of the water. “I need you to have someone to vote for when we elect the next Guild Master.” She disappeared underwater.

It was nice to hear, but they would either survive this together, or not at all. “Nocturnal,” Falnas pleaded with his eyes closed, “Don’t call us to you just yet.”

He opened his eyes and took one last look at the ceiling, now a few centimetres above him. It was the pipe or a slow, horrible, panicky death. He took as much air as he could, then went under, kicking himself off from the ceiling and hooking his hands around the mouth of the pipe.

He pulled himself through the opening and kicked hard, propelling himself so hard he banged against the wall of the pipe when it made an L-turn to the right. He had a brief moment to look ahead, but saw only darkness, before the water overtook him once again, flooding the horizontal section of the pipe. He kicked off, feeling his way as he went, his hands touching a vertical wall again. The pipe led up. With the water still flowing, there was no way to catch up to it, given the pipe’s small circumference and the volume of water that still came. Brynjolf and maybe Karliah would have been able to crawl some of the way – with breathable air! – but Falnas would either swim through the entire thing or die in it.

He couldn’t see anything underwater, and his lungs were about ready to burst. Despair came over him as he realized he would probably never make it to the end. He clawed at the pipe wall, determined to fight until the end. It led upwards again, the water carrying him with its buoyancy.

Hs hands pressed against both sides of the pipe, he worked his way upward, fighting for his life against the force of his own muscles trying to pull his ribcage open and let the water fill his lungs.

Then the walls of the pipe were gone, and he was swimming in free water. He kicked and kicked, clawing his way upwards. He saw light! Light being reflected off the surface of the water. He wasn’t going to make it! It was too far! His lungs screamed and he kicked like mad, but it was the end.

He’d fought well, and Nocturnal would be proud of him when he entered her realm. The Skeleton Key hung from his belt and the others would be able to recover it from his body. Peace came over him when he realized Brynjolf and Karliah would have made it. They’d had the chance to breathe before the last part was flooded, and with the light so close, they would have made it to the surface. They were safe and alive, and he could make his own sacrifice in peace.

His lungs could take no more and his mouth opened, inhaling the water, sealing his fate.

As he lay in the cold embrace of the water, now both around and within him, he stopped fighting and let death take him. And he was surprised to feel death’s fingers close around its wrist, as if it was ready to take him to Nocturnal’s realm and drag him if it had to.

He felt himself going upward, more fingers latching onto him, pulling him away to whatever destination awaited him.

His head broke the surface of the water, and immediately, his lungs contracted, ejecting the liquid inside them in loud hacking fits, the water spraying from his mouth and running down his chin.

He knew he wasn’t in the realm of death when he saw Brynjolf’s stupidly grinning face in front of him.

“Falnas! Falnas!” he heard Karliah shout behind him, and he turned his head to see her face also. “Oh, you’re alive, thank Nocturnal. Oh, that was close!”

Falnas couldn’t reply, only puke up more water.

“Let it out, buddy,” Brynjolf laughed, beside himself with relief. Falnas felt more or less the same. He was alive! His friends had come back for him and he was _alive_!

He managed to take a breath, and with a loud “Ha- _haaaa_!”, he threw his arms around Brynjolf. “I’m alive! I’m _alive_!”

Brynjolf hiccupped with laughter. “I can’t believe we managed to get you out! Man, that was _tense_! I am _never_ swimming again!”

Falnas turned to Karliah and wrapped his arms around her as well, though in a very different way than he’d done with Byrnjolf. She held him back and he pressed his lips hard against hers while Brynjolf just cackled like a madman behind them, swinging his arms to splash water everywhere in pure ecstasy.

Their lips parted, and Karliah smiled at him. “Come on, let’s get out of the water.”

They lazily paddled to the edge of the underwater pond that had formed when the ventilation pipe at the bottom of what was only a pit before, had started to belch up water. They were now in an egg-shaped cavity in the mountain, with only a small opening above them, letting in the light of dawn. The water seemed to have stopped rising now, the reservoir which had held the water had either drained, or reached an equal level with the pond they were in now.

Falnas’ lungs still ached, and he could feel there was still water inside them, but none of that mattered. He’d cough up most of it, and the rest, well, he’d have to make sure to stock a few potions to prevent infections. Lungs hated water, after all.

When they were all sitting on a rocky perch overlooking the pond, Brynjolf said, “So, what now?”

“Now we get out of here,” Karliah said, her legs dangling over the edge of the rocky precipice. “There’s a passage that leads up.”

“Not that. I mean what happens with the Guild? Where do we go from here?”

Karliah looked out at the water and smiled. “Well. With our previous leader having met an unfortunate demise, we’ll have to hold elections, I suppose.”

Brynjolf blew. “What’s the point? You’ve earned the position fair and square.”

Falnas coughed again, spitting out more water. “He’s… right, you know. It makes,” cough, “sense that you’d take the reins.”

Karliah chuckled. “No. No, I can’t lead this Guild.” She turned to Falnas. “I had years to prepare my move against Mercer and the only thing I’ve managed is to come up with the most needlessly convoluted, least effective excuse for a plan ever made. No.” She looked ahead again. “I always thought I’d be a good leader, but I’m not. I didn’t realize that until recently.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m… a better advisor than a leader. A good right-hand woman.”

“Who then?” Brynjolf asked. “I sure can’t lead. I’m a man of action. I’d get us all jailed in a week. Vex? Delvin? All too individualistic.”

Karliah sighed and rolled her eyes. “You don’t pick up on subtlety very well, do you, Brynjolf?”

With a shrug, Brynjolf only said, “I’m a Nord. Of course I don’t.”

Karliah repeated, “I’m good at advising while someone else leads. A good second-in-command.”

Falnas decided to let go of all reservations and insecurities and got up, saying, “She means me, Brynjolf. I should be the next Guild Master.”

“Oh. Right.” He thought for a moment. “I’d vote for you.”

“Come on,” he told the others. “Let’s go back to the surface. Build a fire. Get warm. Then we can get back to Riften. We can always mount an expedition for the Eyes later. Right now, we need to go home and make sure I get elected.”

“You will be,” Karliah said with a smile, also standing up. “When we enter the Ragged Flagon tomorrow, it will be your kingdom.”

“And will you be my queen?”

“I will be, but let’s not make this awkward for Brynjolf.”

Falnas took her hand, and together, the three Nightingales walked to the surface, gathered wood for a fire, and spent a day of camaraderie, forging an unbreakable bond between them, one that made all three equal, one that made no difference between them, that went beyond romance or friendship. They were Nightingales, and they were the best damn thieves on Nirn. They spent the entire day by the fire in their underclothes, talking, making jokes, telling stories, sharing thoughts both profound and frivolous, sharing their food and drink. Then they slept, their bodies finally resting from the trials they had been put through.

They woke together, packed their bags and returned to Riften, enjoying each other’s company, knowing it’d be the last time they’d be together without all the headaches and responsibilities and politics of the Guild.

When they stood at the Shrine of Nocturnal, Falnas holding the Skeleton Key, they swore never to betray each other, and all three knew none of them would ever break their word.

Then Falnas returned the Key, Nocturnal’s approval washing over them, and he knew that a new, better time for the Guild had begun. A Guild that, under his leadership, would blossom and flourish, and would perform deeds that would make for such good stories, that the one of his ascent to Guild Master would seem like a quaint little tale in comparison.

 


	64. Redrawn in Red

 

**Redrawn in Red**

**Castle Volkihar**

 

“Go on,” Roë commanded her captain. “Don’t stand there mincing words. Tell it like it is.”

Fura pulled her mouth to one side in hesitation. “You’re… not being entirely recognized as rightful ruler of the Castle.” She winced, as if she feared to be struck dead on the spot.

“I said no mincing words,” Roë raised her voice. “Speak clearly!”

The other vampire inhaled slowly and said, “They all see you as a usurper. As a petty tyrant. The executions didn’t make them fall in line, quite the… contrary.”

Frustration grew as Roë listened to Fura’s report. She’d sent her to gauge the overall acceptance of her rulership, and the outcome was far from what she’d hoped. Even though she was sitting on the stone throne of Castle Volkihar’s ruler, they still didn’t recognize her as their Lady. “Do they understand what I’m trying to do, at least?”

“No,” Fura said quietly. “They… they hate you.”

“Ungrateful mongrels,” Roë grunted to herself. Worthless bastards, to a man. She’d deposed the murderous tyrant they’d all hated, and not a word of thanks, not a scrap of recognition, just jealousy that they weren’t the ones sitting on the throne. The public executions were supposed to make them shut up and do as they were told, but it seemed even harsher methods were in order. Her fingers played with Auriel’s Bow, draped over the back of her throne.

These weak-bloods would listen, even if she had to destroy them all and create her entire court anew. Fura at least was somewhat loyal, although Roë suspected the bitch of plotting against her all the same.

“Perhaps…” her chief of security said carefully, “a display of kindness and understanding would go a long way toward – ”

“Is that all you can say?” Roë bit at her. “Kindness and understanding? This is a vampiric court, not a damn nursery! They disrespect me, and you want me to be kind? The minute I show these mutts any kind of weakness, they’ll pounce and tear me apart.”

“Forget I said anything,” Fura merely muttered. “There is… one more thing.”

“Ugh. Go on, what else?”

“There’s talk among the nobles. They’re thinking of…” she cleared her throat, “… overthrowing you and reinstating Lady Serana.”

“Serana?” Roë blurted out. “Serana had her chance! She could have ruled at my side! Instead, she tried to murder me. Have you all forgotten that? Serana _tried to murder me, her best friend_. And that’s the person you want to see on this throne?”

Fura held up her hands. “I’m only saying what I’ve heard. I’m not a part of it.”

“Sure you aren’t.” Everyone had betrayed her, or was about to. This bitch was no different, with her squeaky voice and her ridiculous accent. “Get out of here.”

“Lady Roë…”

“ _What?_ ”

“Maybe I’m making a mistake, but… I have to say this. You got me out of the sun pit, you risked yourself to help me when no one else would, and I’m thankful for it, but…”

“But what? Spit it out!”

“You’re starting to frighten me.”

“Good!” Roë snapped at her. “Because apparently fear is the only way to command respect from you people.”

Fura shook her head and continued, though visibly uncomfortable. “I respected you more when you were reasonable and caring.”

Ugh, how could they not see? Why did they think she didn’t care? “Fura,” she said with a sigh. “I _do_ care. But you’re all making it impossible for me to show it. It feels like… the moment I show any emotion, they’ll all set their fangs into my throat.”

“I’m just saying, if I may, and I know it isn’t my place…”

“It isn’t, but go on.”

“… trying to control these nobles through force and terror is going to end badly.”

“Nonsense,” Roë grunted. “They need to be shown who’s in charge. And the only thing they respect is strength.”

“It’s been weeks, Lady Roë,” Fura insisted. “Weeks of intimidation, weeks of torture, weeks of executions. Yes, they were traitors, but – ”

“They got what they deserved.”

“ _Yes_ , but after all this time, there are still those who would betray you. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me,” Roë said, rising from her throne and stepping towards Fura, “that I need to be more thorough. I can’t show any kindness or friendship as long as these traitors aren’t weeded out. When _that_ ’s done, I can be the merciful and encouraging leader I want to be. But not before.”

“I just – ”

“No. Enough talking. You have rounds to make.”

Fura’s eyes flashed and she jerked the hounds’ leashes. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Watch your mouth, Fura! Remember your place!”

The insolent bitch just turned and left. What had she done to deserve such animosity? If they’d only given her a fair chance from the start, instead of immediately forcing her hand, immediately giving her no other choice than to secure her leadership through fear, they would have seen her for the noble and wise ruler that she wanted to be.

They were angry about being ruled through fear, but they’d caused this situation, not her. Or was an assassination attempt on her second night of rulership not a clear declaration of war? And what of the attempt to steal Auriel’s Bow two nights after? They were trying to steal it to use it against her, that much was obvious. The three conspirators had met their end on a blazing pyre, and that seemed to have only encouraged the treacherous bastards to double their efforts. They’d become more careful and more patient, but they still plotted and connived. Even those who pretended to be loyal. Probably even Fura.

All she’d wanted was to be seen as a noble and wise ruler. Why couldn’t she be that person? Why did they all hate her?

“Roë. I need to talk to you.”

She knew the voice, right away. She raised her head and saw Serana standing in the doorway.

“Who let you in here, _traitor_?” she growled. “I thought I told you to never come back here again.”

“And yet,” Serana said, coming closer, “here I am. Nobody tried to stop me. Nobody did even the smallest thing to keep me from coming in here, even though you told them the exact opposite.”

“That’s because they’re all traitors who want to use you to get to me.”

“There’s something I want to say, Roë, and please believe me when I say it’s because I care about you,” Serana said gently, doubtless to play on Roë’s emotions, to lull her into dropping her guard. It wouldn’t work.

“Then speak before I lose my patience.”

“I’ve come to make you an offer. A chance to stop what’s about to happen.”

“I’ll indulge you, but stop beating about the bush.”

Serana sighed and looked down at her feet, in a false display of meekness. “If you step down voluntarily, I guarantee you will be allowed to leave here unharmed. And I… swear I will once again offer you my friendship. That I will find a way, together with you, to heal the wounds inside your head and your soul.”

“Your friendship? Please,” Roë scoffed, “Don’t offer me consolation prizes out of pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Serana lied. “I’ve done you wrong, Roë. I… made hasty decisions, lost sight of my own responsibility and how I failed to take it. I want to make up for it.” She looked up again, her blazing eyes set on Roë’s. “It’s the truth. I’m laying my heart bare for you here, and it’s a really scary thing to do.”

Did she mean it? Was she sincere? Perhaps she was. Roë knew she wasn’t, but perhaps, if she gave her a chance… Maybe if Roë fooled herself enough, somehow it would become true. What if Serana was being honest and not trying to deceive her? She knew it wasn’t true, but… the bitter illusion of hope did make her doubt.

Serana held out her hand. “Come with me, Roë. Come with me and we can make all this become well again.”

She wasn’t convinced, much as she wanted to be. “And I need to step down for this? Why? Can’t we simply be friends while I still rule this Castle?”

“No, Roë. We can’t. As long as you feel you have a position of power to protect, things will keep getting worse. I’ve heard... horrible things, Roë. Things the Roë I knew would never have been capable of.”

Great. The traitors had already filled her head with slander. “What have you heard? Please. Indulge me.”

“Terrible things, Roë.” Serana was putting on a very convincing act. A bit too convincing for Roë to dismiss it out of hand as such. “You’ve massacred the Dawnguard. In a… gruesome way.”

“Exaggerations,” Roë scoffed. “I did what needed to be done. There is no clean and painless way to stop a group of fanatics from burning you alive.”

“Not just that. That you… burn vampires at the stake.”

“ _Traitorous_ vampires,” Roë corrected. “Assassins who tried to murder me in my sleep.”

“Worse things too. That you… do terrible things to slaves. Degrade them, torture them, make them… do things to each other. Perverted, twisted things. Violations, brutalities, murders… _incest_. Things that make me nauseous, Roë.”

“And you _believe_ those things?” Roë shouted. “A bunch of ungrateful, power-hungry would-be usurpers come to tell you disgusting things about me and you just _believe_ them? I thought you were intelligent, Serana!”

“It doesn’t matter, Roë. Whether or not they’re true, they hate you enough to tell these horrible things about you. That hate doesn’t just come from out of nowhere. I want you to step down, not just to protect you from yourself, but to protect you from these creatures as well.”

“And if I step down? Let’s talk about that, purely for the sake of the argument. If I step down, then who takes my place? I suppose you, in your selfless magnanimity, would be prepared to shoulder the heavy burden, wouldn’t you?”

She had to admit, “Perhaps. If the nobles would have me.”

It was all becoming clear. This was her ploy all along. She’d almost been fooled. “The nobles who summoned you here? Those nobles?” She shook her head. “Serana, you were close, but I see this whole spectacle for what it truly is now. You’re on their side. And they don’t want me to step down peacefully, even if I was prepared to.” She’d almost fallen into the trap, but she’d caught on just in time. “I don’t know if you’re actively scheming with them, or they’re just using you as a patsy, but if I listen to you, I will end up torn apart by these scavengers.”

“Roë, I’m not here because the nobles – ”

“Stop lying,” Roë shouted, jabbing a finger at her. “You almost had me fooled, but I won’t listen to your lies any further. Out of respect for our once-friendship, I’ll let you leave here alive, but you had better be gone before I change my mind.”

“Roë, please, this is your last chance – ”

“Get out!” Roë snarled. “Stop insulting me with your lies! Out!”

Serana lowered her head. “I tried, Roë, I really did. I’m sorry.” She reached for the door and slowly opened it, but showed no intention of leaving.

Instead, another person walked in.

“Should have listened when you had the chance.”

The person who’d stepped through the door was a human woman, with messy long blonde hair, its colour pale and dull like all human hair colours. She wore bulky armour made of bones, and held a curved, jagged sword in one hand and a bone shield in the other.

Roë knew who this was. She’d dreaded the confrontation, but had known it would happen eventually. This was the only person who might still be a threat to her.

 _Might_ be.

Because even the Dragonborn didn’t have the odds in her favour when going up against the Lady of all Vampires.

“So,” Roë said to Serana. “You’ve thrown in with the Dawnguard. Couldn’t kill me yourself, so you figured you’d conspire with the enemy of everything we stand for.”

“It’s not like that,” Serana said quietly.

“So,” the blonde woman said, coming closer. She was disgustingly confident. “This is the _Vampire Lady_ I’ve been hearing such despicable things about.”

Roë leaned back on her throne, giving the weak human a sneer of disdain. “Funny, I haven’t heard a thing about you.”

“No need,” the woman said. “I let my actions speak for me.”

“I assume you’ve come here to try and kill me,” Roë said, making sure she sounded properly amused. “Well, I won’t stop you from committing suicide, if that’s what you want.” Roë knew the fight wouldn’t be easy for her, but she also knew that if she held nothing back, she would prevail against this peasant. The Dovahkiin’s legend would end here.

“Why do you villainous overlords always carry yourselves with that rotten air of overconfidence?” the woman asked. “It’s a horrible cliché, and you always end up looking like fools because of it. Well, just before you die.”

Roë rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested in vapid trash talk. Why are you even here?”

“Because you’re insane. Because you’re going to set the entire world on fire if you’re not stopped. Because you massacred the Dawnguard, right when I was close to ending the eternal war between them and us. They were the enemy, but they were good people. Many were my friends, and you butchered them like animals.”

“It was self-defence,” Roë said dismissively. “If they’d left us alone – ”

“They would have, if you hadn’t slaughtered them all!” the woman shouted. “They were misguided, but Nine damn it, they didn’t deserve to be torn apart like dogs!”

This self-righteous cack was boring Roë to tears. “Please. Spare me the platitudes. If you want to meet your Dawnguard friends, then let’s get on with it.”

The Nord banged her sword against her shield. “Gladly.”

“Just one thing. Fura!”

After a brief moment of silence, the vampire slowly crept into the throne room, the hounds at their leashes.

“You,” Roë snapped, pointing at Serana, “You stay out of it this time, or there will be no mercy. Fura, see to it.”

Serana pleaded, “Arska, wait. Roë, you can still – ”

“No!” the Nord woman interrupted her. “You begged me to let you try and talk her out of it, you did, she wouldn’t listen. You had your chance.”

“You make it sound”, Roë smirked, “as if I’m the one whose life would have been saved if I’d stepped down.”

“One of us dies here,” the Dragonborn growled. “For the good of all the world, it has to be you.”

Roë stood up from her throne and flexed her fingers. “Bring it, worm.”

The Dragonborn raised her ugly blade and charged at Roë with a roar, clearly intent on finishing the fight quickly, before she could shift. But even without her Vampire Lady form, Roë still wasn’t a pushover. She dodged the stab, even quick as it was, and commanded her body to reform itself.

Bones broke, skin tore, and in the gruesome agony she had come to know by now, her clothes ripped off her as she became the glorious monster whose form now only she could assume.

The Dragonborn had recovered from her clumsy charge and swung her blade again, but Roë pulled out of reach, floating above the ground.

“Fus… Ro Dah!”

Roë was buffeted by staggering force, thrown backward, her back hitting the wall, the vestiges of her wings crumpling between her and the stone.

The Dragonborn stood wide-legged and hunched, as if to recover from the effort of her shout, and Roë leapt at her, her claws slicing through the air and striking the low-born bitch in the shoulder so hard one of her bone pauldrons was torn off, flying through the air. The Dragonborn staggered from the blow, even though the pauldron had absorbed the brunt of the strike before flying off.

Roë lunged again, but the Dovahkiin was quicker, driving her sword into Roë’s abdomen to the hilt. Roë roared as she felt her insides being impaled, the jagged edge sliding into her with gruesome ease. She kicked out, her mighty leg sending Arska flying, her sword in her hand long enough to be pulled out before sailing through the air.

With all her willpower, Roë healed the terrible wound transfixing her, and advanced on the Dragonborn, who was scrambling to her feet, her blade beyond her reach. “It’s the end of the line for you, _Dragonborn_ ,” Roë roared in the distorted voice of her monstrous form.

She raised her leg to stomp the woman flat, but she rolled out of the way, her claw smacking into the stone. The Dovahkiin dodged one claw swipe, then another, retreating to the double doors that led to the great hall.

“You’re not getting away,” Roë roared.

The Dragonborn fell back, keeping out of reach of Roë’s claws until her back was against the doors. Then she looked past Roë, her face desperate, sweaty blonde hair hanging over it.

“Raan Mir Tah!” she shouted, and Roë braced for another gust of force, but she felt nothing this time. Her power was already spent. This Dragonborn had been all talk, and now it was time for her to die.

Roë swiped again, but Arska threw herself backward, again dodging and rolling deftly back to her feet. No matter. Roë had preferred to tear her apart with her bare claws, but the Vampire Lady had more at her disposal than mere brute force.

Her upper lip peeling back, she extended her hand and hooked it into a claw. The other woman tried to move, but Roë’s power held her fast. A line of red mist began to form, and despair slowly etched the Nord’s features as her lifeblood began to swirl in the air, droplets so fine they passed through her pores and into the air.

Too bad, Dragonborn, you thought you were going to make a show of being the conquering victor, and you weren’t even a challenge. She saw the terror and despair in the woman’s eyes, and relished every moment of it, knowing this bitch hadn’t felt this kind of fear in a very, very long time. And she would never feel it again after this.

Briefly, almost too short to realize, Roë looked into the other woman’s eyes, wide with despair, determined not to beg or plead, but doing it all the same, and she felt sorry for her. Her lifeblood was being wrenched from her, and she would die drained and sucked dry, her carcass fed to Fura’s hounds, the beast tearing the chunks of her flesh apart, reducing her to meat, bones and bowels.

The woman’s eyes – the girl’s eyes, really, she was no older than twenty-five – begged her to stop, even though the person owning them would never do so herself. It was the moment she realized that she wasn’t immortal, that she wasn’t a legend, but that she would die painfully and shamefully, like any other mortal.

And with this woman destroyed, nothing would stand in the way of –

It was as if her body was blown violently apart, unimaginable pain blasting through her. She howled, her body bucking and spasming, the world reduced to nothing but pure, mind-breaking agony.

Torn and paralyzed in obliterating pain, she managed to look down and saw the bright light protruding from her abdomen, a shaft so luminous it burned her eyes to look at it. Her bones broke and crunched again, but she didn’t even feel them. The entire world was nothing but blinding, searing pain.

As she returned to her human form, the fading arrow of light was ejected from her body, and her bleeding eyes turned to see Serana standing behind her, holding Auriel’s Bow, the string no longer pulled.

Her consciousness lapsed, fading in and out, and she was only faintly aware of a force grabbing her by the hair and pulling, dragging her out of the throne room, through the double doors and into the great hall.

“Arska,” she heard Serana call, miles away, “Call off the hounds, they’re tearing Fura apart.”

“So?” a voice came back, closer by but still infinitely far away. “Not my problem.”

“She was only doing as she was told! Call them off!”

“… _Fine_.”

Roë felt her knees being scraped open as she was dragged over the stone, her muscles still utterly powerless. Her arms reflexively slapped at the fingers holding her hair, but they were feeble swats.

Through blurred vision, she saw all the vampires assembled in the great hall, looking at her on the balcony, being dragged forward by the Dragonborn.

Her eyesight still spun, but it began to clear. Her muscles still didn’t listen to her, it was as if she was paralyzed. Her sensation returned as well, as did the feeling of the air on her skin, and she realized that she was entirely naked.

The faces of the vampires looking up at her were filled with glee and cruelty. They’d even brought the prisoners upstairs to watch, their filthy eyes fixed on her bare skin.

She felt a hard kick in the back of her legs. “Get on your knees!” Her kneecaps cracked as they struck the ground, the open skin bleeding on the cold stone. The Dovahkiin had put her up for display at the top of the stairs.

“St… stop this, I…” she managed to beg, but she fell quiet when the Dragonborn set the tip of her jagged blade against her lower abdomen.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the woman hissed through clenched teeth, but loud enough for the entire great hall to hear. “I’m going to gut you right here, right in front of everyone. Give them a sight they’ll enjoy and talk about for years to come.” She chuckled hoarsely. “Because the sight they’ve got right now isn’t much to look at.” With a snort, she added, “Tits that small and they still managed to be uneven.”

Roë heard quiet laughing coming from the vampires. “Please… I don’t…”

“Be quiet.”

Roë felt her hair being twisted in the woman’s fist and pulled up, just far enough for her knees to still touch the ground, but her arms flailed for balance.

“Maybe I should make it even better for them,” the Dragonborn said cruelly. “Maybe I shouldn’t start cutting so high. I could place my sword even lower than your belly. There’s a good spot down there for the tip of my sword to…” Roë heard the women whisper in her ear, “… hook into.”

She broke, red tears falling from her eyes. She knew she was going to die, that it was over for her, and her pride and dignity no longer mattered. All she wanted was for it to be over. “Please no, please, not that. Please, just kill me and get it over with.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you… eventually. First, all your loyal subjects are going to enjoy the sight of your stinking, rotten guts sliding down the stairs. They’re going to hear your gurgling, see your twisted face as you slowly die. It’ll reawaken feelings in them they thought they no longer had.”

“Enough.”

Serana’s voice could bring salvation.

“Arska, _enough_.”

“Oh no,” the Dovahkiin chortled. “Nowhere near enough.”

Serana came to stand next to the Dragonborn, holding Fura, whose legs were torn, bleeding shreds of flesh draped over white bone. The hounds looked up at their mistress, their eyes full of guilt. Fura moved, but only barely. It didn’t matter anymore to Roë.

“Arska. Don’t do this,” Serana pleaded. “You don’t know her like I do. I agree she has to be stopped, but she’s not a bad person. Or wasn’t, until the blood corrupted her.”

Roë still couldn’t move, only watch the events and hope the Dragonborn would find her heart.

“Really?” the Dragonborn snarled. “Then why are you and I not twisted and evil butchers like this bitch here?”

Now Roë realized, and now she noticed the fangs in the Dragonborn’s mouth. She was like them. But she realized it didn’t matter anymore.

“What you’re about to do right now is pretty much twisted and evil butchering, Arska.”

The grip on Roë’s hair tightened and for a moment, time stopped. Roë could only endure the gleeful eyes of the vampires and prisoners, and hope Serana could convince this woman to be merciful.

“Gut the bitch!” one of the vampires shouted, and Serana immediately raised the Bow and pulled its string.

“I still value Roë more than any of you,” Serana warned them. “So don’t provoke me!”

“Arska…” Roë managed to plead, “Please… listen to Serana, I… I don’t deserve this.” Fresh tears of blood streamed down her cheeks. “I tried to be a good person. I tried to stop myself from going insane.” Because what she’d done had been insane, she realized that now, too late. “I don’t deserve this.”

“She’s broken, Arska,” Serana said quietly. “You can’t break her any further, you can only surrender to the same madness you’re about to kill her for. I won’t let you do this to her, and I won’t let you do this to yourself.”

The Dragonborn hesitated. “She dies here. Nothing changes that.”

“Arska – ”

“ _No!_ She dies here.”

“Then… at least make it quick,” Serana said, closing her eyes. “Don’t make the same mistake she did.”

Roë already knew it was over for her. All she could do was hope the woman didn’t put her through horrible suffering and indignity.

The Dragonborn breathed hard through her nose, but not because she needed the air. “Fine.” Roë let out a short gurgle when she felt a foot being set against the back of her neck, her hair pulled backward. “You’re lucky Serana takes pity on you, because you wouldn’t have gotten any from me.”

Roë felt relief and terror at the same time. She was going to die here, going to be executed in front of everyone. What would wait for her after this? Would there even be anything? She was terrified of dying, but at the same time, she wanted it to be over.

“Wait, Arska, I… need to say something,” Serana stopped her, kneeling by Roë. “Roë… I’m sorry. I should have taken my responsibility. My father gave you too much power, too fast. I tried to guide you, but I gave up on you when you needed me hardest. It’s too late now, but Roë, please believe me, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Roë could only croak, “I’m sorry too.”

She felt the sharp edge of the sword being placed against the side of her neck.

More tears came, and she begged Serana, “Please, Serana, don’t look. Close your eyes. I don’t want you to see… what’s going to happen.”

Serana did as Roë asked, turning away with her eyes shut.

“Any last words?” Roë heard the voice of the Dovahkiin. “Make it quick.”

There was nothing left to say, except, “Serana… all I ever wanted was you.”

The pain only lasted for a brief moment, then Roë felt nothing.

In front of all the vampires that had despised her so much, her dead body, its muscles no longer receiving instructions from her brain, fell forward down the stairs. It smacked into the steps and made a single tumble before landing on the ground, its legs falling open, exposing its intimacy. It twitched on the ground as Roë’s heart, still for so long, began to contract in its death throes, the blood pumping out of her severed neck in rhythmic, obscene spurts.

Her head was being held aloft by its hair, her face going slack in the gruesome way only dead faces could, as more blood rained down on the stones.

Yet, her last moments were peaceful. In the last moments her head, now disembodied and hanging by its hair, still lived, Roë was far away, back in Solitude, sitting at a table near the fireplace in the Winking Skeever, the inn packed with people, the smell of pipe smoke and beer in the air. She was there with Gethor and Kunod, draining her mug full of cold ale, listening to a completely flat-drunk Gethor sing dirty songs about Argonian females, Corpulus the owner hyucking with laughter.

Her last thought was of raising her mug and shouting for Corpulus to fill them up one more time.

 

 


	65. First Thread Tied

 

* * *

 

**First Thread Tied**

 

* * *

 

“We’re almost home,” Karliah said, smiling.

“I know. It’ll be strange, you know, the elections and all.”

“Pft,” Brynjolf blew. “With both of us backing you, it’ll be a formality. Even Vex will have to admit that you’re the best man for the job.”

“I suppose,” Falnas said. “But still. Never thought I’d make it to Guildmaster.” He added quickly, “ _If_ I get elected.”

“I told you not to be ridiculous,” Karliah smiled. “You’ll be Guildmaster.”

The return to the Ragged Flagon was triumphant, and indeed, even Vex was happy to see them return, if only because it meant Mercer had been smacked down. She’d taken it the most personally of all of them, for whatever reason. Then again, she took everything personally.

After a meal, a drink and a bed, elections were held, and indeed, they were nothing but a formality, the decision made before a half hour was over.

Falnas immediately started to reorganise the Guild, expanding operations out of Riften and setting up fencing and smuggling lines as well as semi-legal business opportunities, like shops and charities, to transfer and increase the gold inflow. Initiates appeared again, only a few at first, but eventually enough to warrant a suspension on hiring. Some started freelance, but the Guild wouldn’t be the Guild if they put a clear and sometimes slightly painful stop to that.

Delvin attributed it all to the curse having been lifted, and he was definitely partly right, but Falnas, in all modesty, couldn’t deny being a capable Guildmaster, his second-in-command Karliah sticking by him every step of the way.

Their personal relationship was a bit more difficult, Karliah still being unsure of whether or not she was doing the right thing by moving on, but when they stood in the graveyard one day, looking at Gallus’ tombstone, the clouds parted and a nightingale settled on the grave, giving a few cheerful chirps before flitting off again.

Falnas went inside, poured himself a mug of ale for lack of a better beverage, and smiled. He looked at his kingdom, he was finally there, to sit on his throne as the boss of the lair.

 


	66. Second Thread Tied

* * *

 

  **Second Thread Tied**

 

* * *

 

 

“Come on, Grulli, we won’t catch anything more today.”

Grulli and her father usually fished with nets, of course, but every seventh day, they would spend some time line-fishing together. Not really to catch any fish, although they did of course, but to spend time together. It had been necessary since mother had died and father had spent so much time coming to grips with his own grief. But they were mending, the small family of two, and Grulli loved him for it.

“Father, is there any chance we’ll… well…” She batted her eyelashes at him.

He chortled and said, “ _Yes_ , Grulli, we can open the bottle of spiced wine tonight.”

Grulli was a bit young to enjoy alcohol, but her father sometimes permitted her small delights, like this one, spending the evening by the fireplace, enjoying a mug of hot spiced wine. The small things could be so wonderful, and Grulli pitied the people who only cared about gold and fame and power. She had all she needed here, with her father and their small cabin at the edge of the village.

With a smile, she tied her fishing rod to the jetty, like her father had done – no one would steal them this far out anyway – and scooped up the basket of crushed ice, two fish tails sticking out of the frozen chunks. They’d have a nice dinner tonight, but the time they’d spent together had been most important.

As she turned to leave, she saw something that looked… out of place.

“Father,” she asked, pointing, “is that…?”

Berkku stopped and looked where his daughter was indicating, squinting through the gently falling snow. “Stay here, Grulli,” he ordered, sliding his hatchet out of his belt.

Slowly, he moved closer to the strange shape, Grulli looking on in trepidation. What if it was a wild animal? Her father could probably run from the occasional horker, or put down a snow wolf or two, but anything more dangerous than that, and he might never drink spiced wine ever again.

“Father,” Grulli called at Berkku’s back. “I don’t… I have a really bad feeling about this.”

Berkku ignored her and advanced, he and his hatchet slowly fading in the thickening snow. Grulli felt her stomach knot, and she began shivering, not from the cold. She really didn’t trust this. If something happened to her father, there was no way she’d be able to get help fast enough – after all, they were more than a mile from the village, on an icy shore.

She set her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Father please, come back! Whatever it is, it’s not worth taking risks over.”

She saw her father being swallowed by the white snowfall and felt her breath become faster and more shallow. She reflexively hugged herself against the shivers, the basket of fish at her feet completely forgotten.

No sound or movement came from the curtain of snow.

“Father?”

What if something had soundlessly pounced on him and was devouring him right now? Her stomach hurt from the tension.

Then he reappeared, plodding through the snow, axe in hand, and Grulli felt herself let out a long, ragged sigh of relief.

“I need your help with this, Grulli,” her father said, his face grim. “But I’ll need you to be a big girl. Can you handle that?”

Grulli nodded. She was so relieved her father was unharmed that she couldn’t imagine feeling fazed by anything at all. “I’m fourteen, father. I _am_ a big girl.”

Her father gave a nod and said, “Come on.”

She followed her father through the falling snow, in the direction of the shape she’d seen before the snowfall had become heavier. She was no longer worried or nervous, but simply curious. It wasn’t dangerous, so what was it?

“It’s… not a pretty sight,” Berkku warned. “But we can’t just ignore it.”

Grulli silently acknowledged his warning.

A few more steps and they were close enough to see what it was, and despite her feeling of unassailability, she felt her breath stall in her throat. She had to gasp for air a few times, her mitt on her chest.

It was the first time she’d seen one, and this one was in terrible shape.

She could still recognize that it had been a male human at one point, but apart from that, she could tell very little about the dead body half-washed up on the ice. He lay face down, his arms splayed, his hair in clumps on his skull, some of the skin torn away. The robe he wore had at one time been bright and gaudy, but now the colours had dulled, the limited light only serving to further flatten them. From what she could tell from the exposed skin on its arms and legs, the body hadn’t at all rotted, but rather mummified due to the low temperature.

That hadn’t deterred the fish and other scavengers, however, and bite and tear marks were everywhere, the skin and muscles at points torn off to expose mottled bone.

“Come on,” Berkku grunted, grabbing one of the body’s arms and pulling. “I need your help, get the other arm.”

Even though she wore mitts, she still grimaced when she took hold of the half-eaten hand, feeling the half-frozen skin slide and crack against the bones, and pulled. The feeling made her shudder, but her father was right, they couldn’t just leave this person there, no matter who it had been. The way the body moved, along with some gruesome crunching, made it clear that it had been broken in several places, either from a fall, or simply by the waves smacking it against the rocks.

Still, the body got out of the water on one piece, and Grulli’s father turned it over with his boot.

The man’s face hadn’t fared better than the rest of him, the skin torn away in places, and riddled with bite marks everywhere else. The eyes were gone, one of the eyelids ripped away, the other drooping over an empty socket.

“You alright?” Berkku asked gruffly.

She wasn’t, not really, but she still gave a shaky nod.

“Good girl. Strong, like your mother.”

Berkku dragged the body back to the fish basket, which had almost completely snowed under. Grulli picked it up, shaking the snow off it, and followed her father as he pulled the body over to the edge of the forest. There, he took his hatchet out again, and began chopping at the ground. Grulli helped where she could, using her knife to further soften the earth, and then a flat piece of tree bark to shovel it out. The snow lessened again.

It was dark by the time they were done, and the cold had started to become unbearable. Only once had her father spoken, to ask her if she was coping with the cold. She was freezing, but had still said it was fine. Berkku had continued chopping, saying this person, whoever it had been, had been left exposed to the elements and the cruelty of the wild for too long. Grulli agreed.

The rolled the body into the pit and shovelled the earth back on top of it.

Grulli took off his fur hat and held it against his chest. Grulli felt equally solemn, but taking her hood down would mean letting her ears freeze off, and she had a feeling that this dead guy didn’t exactly expect that of her.

“I don’t know who you were,” Berkku said hoarsely, still panting from the exertion, “but you can rest now. I hope your life was full and happy, and that your last moments were moments of peace and acceptance.”

Silence fell, and Grulli felt she should say something too. In her timid voice, she spoke, “I’m not good at this, but I hope we were able to do some good for you by caring.”

She felt her father’s arm around her shoulder, and she knew he was proud of her.

“Come on,” Berkku said, a warm smile on his face. “He’s dead, but we’re not. We should praise the Nine that we’re still alive and together. Now let’s go home, eat our fish and heat you up some wine.”


	67. Third Thread Tied

 

* * *

 

**Third Thread Tied**

 

* * *

 

  

“Hadn’t expected to see you here. I’m going to tell you right now, if you’ve come to gloat, then – ”

“No. I’m not here to gloat, or to cause trouble.”

“How’d you even know we were here anyway?”

“You’re not the only one who can put two and two together.”

“Are you going to make me regret not being more careful about covering my tracks?”

“No. I already said that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why _are_ you here? I can’t imagine it’s because you want to express your condolences.”

“It’s my business. How… how are your legs?”

“They still hurt immensely, thank you very much. You know, after you made my own hounds turn on me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry about that. It was nothing personal.”

“Well _that’s_ a relief.”

“Enough, you two. Arska, I joined up with you because Roë had to be stopped for her own good. For the good of all of us. But with what you’ve done, you make me wish I hadn’t.”

“I know. I’ve… it’s been on my mind constantly. I… shouldn’t have let it happen the way it did. And… I want to have the chance to tell her that.”

“Well, there she is. On the pyre. Dead. We tried to make it look like her head’s still on, but it kept rolling away, so we had to stitch it on. Put some flowers in her hair because we’re sentimental idiots. We also wrapped her in a shroud, because we figured she’s been naked more than long enough. I hope you don’t mind that we didn’t want to cremate her in such a humiliating way.”

“You know it had to end like this, Serana. She was your friend, I realize that, but there was only one thing that could be done.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to say that. If I hadn’t stopped you – ”

“But you did, Serana, and it’s good that you did. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the responsibility to… well… express some things while I still can.”

“You expressed enough when you cut her head off.”

“Fura, don’t. It’s… too late now. Go on, Arska, have your moment, but the second you misbehave – ”

“I won’t.”

“I’m not going to listen to this hypocrite. Let me know when she’s done.”

“Fura – ”

“No, Lady Serana. I know Roë was losing it, but she was still… someone I respected. I’m going to stand all the way over there, and I’m not coming back until she leaves.”

“It’s alright, Serana. I can’t blame her.”

“Yes, well. You have five minutes, then I need you to leave, Arska. I don’t think you should be present when we send her off.”

“I understand.”

“Go on, say what you have to say.”

* * *

“So. I know I’m the last person you want to hear when you’re about to disappear from this world entirely, but there are still things I want to say to you. I know you probably wish you could stand up and murder me right now. Well, that or your spirit’s long departed and you’re just a dead body that no longer hears or feels anything. Regardless, I have to say this.

I’m sorry, Roë. Not for what I did, because you had to die, we both know that. Maybe not in such a dramatic way, but it had to be done. I know that on some level, you felt the same. No, what I’m sorry for is what happened to you before I came. I know you’re a victim in all this too. I was too late, maybe if I’d come sooner or if Serana had been more supportive, this all could have been avoided. I think she realizes that too, but that guilt is hers to deal with.

We were enemies because of the blood, Roë. I know that, after all the things Serana told me about you. And, well, the things Fura shouted to me about you. I know it wasn’t because of who you were. I don’t know if that means anything to you, but I realize now that I didn’t hate you, but the madness that slowly eroded your mind.

So I suppose I’m… asking for forgiveness? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I just want to tell you that I realize now that it wasn’t your fault. I… know what you feel. I sometimes wonder too. Wonder if I’m not losing my mind. I’ve done things… things I deserve as much punishment for as you got. It’s like I’m someone else when I’m angry. Like I’m not in control, that someone takes over and does those things while I can only watch. And afterward, I’m always torn by guilt and doubt. I don’t show it to anyone, I hide it behind a mask of snooty joviality, I always act like I’m unfazed and don’t feel guilty, but I do.

I know what you went through, and if I need to ask you for forgiveness, it’s for this one thing. For not stopping to think, not stopping to realize that if I searched inside myself, I could have understood. I should have understood. But how do you stop and take time to think, to try to understand, when you see people you called friends lying scattered and torn apart? I used to be able to. I used to be pretty good at putting things in perspective and thinking before acting, but lately… I don’t know.

We both have a lot in common, and I should have stopped to realize that. But at that moment, all I saw was the twisted abomination who’d murdered my friends and so many more people. Maybe it’s the blood that’s doing this to me too. If it’s that, then I can’t even imagine how strong it was for you, so new to this unlife and immediately burdened with this poisoned gift of Coldharbour. Or maybe it wasn’t the blood, but simply the power. It could have been. Lately, I feel like this whole Dragonborn thing, this sheer power with no accountability, is poisoning my soul more than anything. You felt the same way, didn’t you? You could do anything, destroy anyone, and no one would ever dare put a hair’s breadth in your way. Maybe this is the poison that destroys the good in us.

I don’t know, Roë. I don’t know what causes this, but in a way, I need to thank you. I know this sounds callous, but what happened to you made me realize how things will end for me if I don’t turn this around. Perhaps looking for a cure for this… this rotten curse will help. Or maybe I should just start taking responsibility for my actions instead of solving every problem with violence and leaving the mess for others to clean up. Heh, that sounds even harder than curing vampirism.

Serana’s giving me an impatient look, so I better wrap it up. I can’t stay for the cremation, even though I feel like I should. Serana won’t tolerate my presence, and I can’t really blame her, but she’ll be here to the end, as well as Fura. We all made mistakes, but they do care about you, there’s no doubt about that. I just want to say… I know we could have been friends if we’d met before the blood took you. Please believe me when I say I mean that sincerely. I know now that you were a good person. I’m sorry all this had to happen.

Sleep well, Roë. Forgive me.”


	68. Fourth Thread Tied

 

* * *

 

**Fourth Thread Tied**

* * *

 

 

“Uh, Keljarn, either I’m too drunk to see straight, or you did something very spectacular while you were away.”

Keljarn had to chuckle, the baby in his arms probably causing all sorts of wild speculations. “It’s nothing like that. I uh, adopted this little lass when I was chasing after the assassin.”

Farkas frowned. “Tell us all. Let’s start with the assassin.”

With a sigh, Kejarn said, “I let her get away.”

Vilkas’ face darkened, as did all the others. “That’s a shame. She’ll come back for us, and now the deaths of our Companions remain unavenged.”

“She won’t. Come after us, I mean,” Keljarn assured them. “When I say I let her go, I mean I _let_ her go. I spared her life. It was that or leave this little life to die.”

Aela immediately asked, “Can I hold her?”

Keljarn was glad to get the weight off his arm for a bit. He explained them everything, about his chase, the catastrophe at the Thieves’ Guild, even his personal crisis, and the final chase from Markarth to the small village in the plains. The dragon attack, the choice he’d had to make.

Then he allowed them all a moment of silence.

Finally, Aela rose, put her hand on his shoulder and said, “I think you’ve made the right choice. An innocent life is the highest good to protect. Higher than vengeance. Even higher than justice.”

Farkas, Vilkas and Athis were less convinced, but they would understand in time. Along with Aela, Keljarn took the child to the graves of the three slain Companions and explained. They were graves, they said nothing back, but Keljarn knew they all would have approved. None of them would have wanted him to sacrifice an innocent child to avenge them.

Rijada Fireborn would grow up a strong child, with fiery red hair reminiscent of her ordeal as an infant, and a personality to match. The Companions were honest with her from the start, telling her that her real parents had died trying to protect her, and that they would probably never know who her real family was. The girl didn’t seem to care.

The Dragonborn of all people came to visit a few times, always after dark, teaching the child her own style of fighting, surprised at her fast learning speed. And every time she left, she would smile and say to Keljarn, “I’m a bad person, not worth the legend surrounding me, but this… this is a _real_ legend in the making.”


	69. Fifth Thread Tied

* * *

 

**Fifth Thread Tied**

 

* * *

 

He used to find joy in fishing, but now the best he could do was derive some sort of respite from it; a brief moment to be alone with his thoughts, a short while when all the voices in his head stopped shouting and he could sit quietly and grieve, actually thinking sane thoughts for a time.

He’d been staying in Solitude for a week or two now, still hating the cold, and hating the day he came here. The only place he could find some calm was here, on the jetty, wrapped in furs, staring at the sinker of his fishing line, his tea steaming in the cold morning air.

It was cloudy with the occasional break, letting the sun shine through. He took a sip of his tea and put it back on the tiny table next to him. His sinker merrily bobbed on the water. He didn’t usually catch anything but he wasn’t in it for the fish anyway, just the relaxation. Or, well, as much as he could relax these days.

His only son, his successor, the one who was supposed to take over after he retired, had met his end at the foot of a waterfall, broken and bleeding. The Brotherhood had paid, true, but it hadn’t killed the pain, and even now, he always sat fishing with one extra chair, as if his son was with him in spirit. He also had his bow and quiver with him, somehow it felt these things watched over him.

He sighed and tried to think of happier things, but they all went back to his son, the golden boy of the Maro-line, meant for great accomplishments, now dead and buried in this icy backwater land. Once the Emperor granted him leave, he’d simply return to Cyrodiil and take up a job as an instructor to young soldiers. Titus Mede was a good man, and he’d gladly allow him to be transferred back to the regular soldiery, not just because of the tragedy he’d seen, but also to thank him for so many years of loyal service.

He looked forward to a simpler life. He’d faced enough danger, and had lost his son to it, to last a lifetime. It was time for the younger generation to take over, and perhaps with his training, fewer young men would be torn away from their fathers and mothers by all this war and intrigue. He could only hope.

He was startled by a person coming to sit next to him.

“Whatever it is you want,” he grunted, “you’ve got the wrong man. Go away and let me fish in p – ”

His breath stalled when he saw the face of his unasked-for companion.

She was wearing a light toga instead of leather, the hood over her head, but he recognized her right away. It was her, the assassin, the little bitch who’d murdered his son. How had she survived? It didn’t matter. He knew what she came for, the toga was probably just a disguise.

He looked down at his tea and realized. With a resigned sigh, he said, “It’s in my tea isn’t it?”

The girl smiled and shook her head. It was probably just a smile of cruelty, taking joy in his coming death, but somehow didn’t look like it.

“What then? A poisoned dart? Contact poison on the handle of my fishing rod? Whatever it is, I’m certain you’ve already made sure it’ll kill me before revealing yourself. Have you come to gloat one last time?”

She shook her head again.

“Or will you just try to stab me with the dagger hidden in your clothes? If that’s the case, go ahead. The only thing I care about is that I take you with me.”

Another head shake. Why was this bitch even here if not to watch him die?

She took out a piece of paper, scribbled, and slid it over to him. It simply said,

_NO TRICKS_

_NO TRAPS_

Maro found that hard to believe. “So what do you want then? To look on the fruits of your labour? To make sure you did a good job of breaking me? Of breaking a father’s heart?”

Scribble, scribble.

_NO_

“So _what_ then?” he asked again. “I’m quitting the Oculatus, there’s nothing to gain for you here anymore.”

From the folds of her toga, she produced an envelope. Written on it was simply,

_PLEASE READ_

He scoffed. Nice try, bitch. “What, there’s poisoned powder in the envelope? Powder that when inhaled – ”

She frowned impatiently and tapped the paper again. Right, no tricks no traps and all that.

“What’s stopping me from killing you right now?” he asked. She only gave a lopsided shrug.

Fine, he’d humour her. What else was left to lose? Keeping his eye on the girl, he tore open the envelope and began to read.

_COMMANDER MARO_

_I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT LOSS WAS, OR AT LEAST I’D FORGOTTEN, UNTIL YOU DESTROYED MY FAMILY. I ALWAYS THOUGHT EVERYONE ELSE WAS JUST A PIECE OF SCENERY AND I COULDN’T POSSIBLY IMAGINE YOUR LIVES BEING REAL. IT WAS AS IF NOBODY WAS REAL BUT ME. I KNOW THIS DOESN’T EXCUSE WHAT I DID, BUT I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I WAS DOING, NOT THE FULL EXTENT OF IT._

_THERE ARE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE THE REGRET I FEEL AT THE THINGS I’VE DONE. AFTER ASTRID DIED, I SPENT WEEKS HATING MYSELF AND WISHING ONLY TO DIE, BUT SOMEHOW I ALWAYS STOPPED MYSELF WHEN THE ROPE WAS AROUND MY NECK OR THE KNIFE WAS SET AGAINST MY HEART._

_I DON’T DESERVE DEATH. NOT AFTER WHAT I’VE DONE. IT WOULD BE TOO EASY._

_I NEED TO LIVE A LIFE OF PENANCE. I’VE JOINED THE SISTERS OF MARA AND TAKEN THE VOWS. THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME I SET FOOT OUTSIDE OF THE TEMPLE. MY ENTIRE LIFE STARTING TODAY WILL BE SPENT IN NOTHING BUT PRAYER, FLAGELLATION AND LABOUR. I’VE TAKEN SO MUCH FROM THIS WORLD AND IT WILL TAKE MANY MORE YEARS THAN A SINGLE LIFETIME FOR ME TO EVER REDEEM MYSELF, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I DON’T HAVE THE DUTY TO DO WHAT I CAN._

_I’M TERRIFIED OF A LIFE OF IMPRISONMENT ON THE TEMPLE GROUNDS, AND OF ALL THE THINGS I WILL NEVER GET TO DO. I WILL NEVER HAVE MY OWN HOUSE, OR KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO MAKE LOVE. I WILL NEVER HOLD MY CHILDREN OR SPEND A WARM AFTERNOON ON A BENCH IN THE SUN._

_AND I DON’T DESERVE TO. ALL THE PEOPLE I MURDERED WILL NEVER GET TO EXPERIENCE ANY OF THESE THINGS EITHER._

_I CAME TO FIND YOU BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU HAVE YOUR VENGEANCE. I AM BROKEN AND THE BROTHERHOOD DESTROYED. I WAS FORCED TO END THE SUFFERING OF THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TRULY CONSIDERED MY MOTHER. MY LIFE ENDS TODAY EVEN THOUGH I WILL NOT DIE FOR A LONG TIME YET._

_SO FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US HAS PAID FOR WHAT WE’VE DONE, AND YOUR SON CAN PERHAPS REST EASY KNOWING HIS DEATH WAS AVENGED. PERHAPS YOU HAVE ACHIEVED SOMETHING EVEN GREATER THAN VENGEANCE: HEARTFELT REPENTANCE._

_I DO NOT ASK FOR FORGIVENESS, BECAUSE I DO NOT HAVE ANY RIGHT TO IT, BUT I SIMPLY WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT THE REMORSE AND GUILT I FEEL WILL TORMENT ME FOR EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY AS I SPEND THE AGES IN SILENT PRAYER AND LABOUR._

_SO DO NOT FORGIVE ME, FOR EVEN THE MOTHER GODDESS WILL NOT BE ABLE TO. CONSIDER ME RIGHTFULLY AND ETERNALLY PUNISHED INSTEAD._

The letter ended with a simple,

 _PLEASE DO KNOW THAT I AM TRULY SORRY FOR WHAT I DID_.

Maro fought to keep his lower lip from trembling as he lowered the paper and folded it in two. He knew the Temple of Mara accepted repentant evildoers without discrimination, and he also know the Temple never let them leave.

“This… I… this was… not how I expected things to go if I… ever met you again,” he said, aware of the hoarseness in his voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I still want to murder you with my bare hands, but…” Maybe she was right. Maybe death would be too easy for her. He wanted nothing more than to see her die, but perhaps she’d simply thank him for killing her. And yet, his heart burned with the desire for vengeance, to take her life and cast her dead, limp body into the sea.

“What guarantee do I have that this is the truth?” he asked at length, more to have a conversation, and this some more time to think, than out of actual doubt.

She scribbled on a piece of paper.

_NO GUARANTEE_

_BUT I CAME TO FIND YOU_

_WHY WOULD I DO THAT IF NOT BECAUSE I’M TELLING THE TRUTH?_

She had a point. But maybe she just wanted to make him stop hunting her.

She took her hood down and revealed her head, the hair cut off to a brown stubble. She’d tattooed a pattern on her forehead, a clumsy imitation of the mark used by Cyrodiilic slave rings. It indicated that the marked person had been legally made into a slave as the courts’ punishment for only the most heinous crimes.

He believed her.

She gave him a final sad smile before getting up from her chair, her eyes utterly desolate.

Maro stood up as well, still hating her with all his heart, repentance or no.

The girl turned and made to walk back down the jetty and to the shore, but something made Maro grab the bow his son always used for hunting, and draw an arrow.

“I can’t let you leave here. You deserve to die.”

The girl turned back to him, and her face showed nothing but understanding.

Maro felt tears blur his vision, but he still told her, “I should put an arrow through your heart for the terrible things you did. But… on the other hand, maybe you’re right. Maybe you’ll be much better punished by spending the rest of your life imprisoned, in pain and miserable.”

She merely stood looking at him.

“I should… I should kill you. But…”

Slowly, she took a piece of paper from her toga, wrote a few words on it, and tossed it to him as a crumpled ball. He picked it up, still keeping the arrow drawn with one hand, and read

_I UNDERSTAND, NO MATTER WHAT_

_DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO_

Gods, he wanted to kill her. He wanted nothing more. He wanted to see her die, to see the life drain from her eyes, and then hang her on the walls of Markarth to slowly rot. But it would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it? Letting her spend the rest of her young life as a supplicant, her back lashed open from the self-whipping, her hands bleeding from the labour, and her heart wailing from guilt, never knowing any of the joys of life again… maybe this was the best vengeance he could have.

But how he wanted to drive an arrow through her heart…

As he held the bow drawn, Siari gave him one final smile, then turned around and started walking.


	70. Last Words

 

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**Last Words**

 

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I can’t describe how strange it felt when I finally typed the words that I always knew – from the very beginning – this story would end with:

_“Siari gave him one final smile, then turned around and started walking.”_

That very line, that very moment, has been in my head for so long that it’s almost unreal to finally type it. Unlike with the other epics, this one had its endings already set in stone when the first chapter was first written, and it’s so strange to finally arrive at that point, instead of watching the story unfold as I wrote, like I did with Travels of the Chosen One and From the Underground.

After spending so much time in my head, this story is finally on paper in its entirety, and it makes me feel so weird. All these things have been forming in my head during the two years I’ve spent writing this, and now they’re all there, black on white, for everyone to read and hopefully enjoy.

For me, though, it means having to say goodbye again, like I had to do with Lysanna and En. Falnas, Keljarn, Siari, Acrus and Roë have been a part of my life for so long it’s going to be a big change to no longer have them with me. Sure, the people who are following me as an author, rather than just this story, will say I still have Katie to keep me company, but still. Five Threads took more than two years to write, which isn’t surprising since it’s become such a long epic of over 300,000 words. I think it blows way past “average novel” in terms of length, haha!

Before I provide some backstory and explanation about some of the elements in the story, I’d like to thank you guys with all my heart. I always write stories simply because I love writing them, but to have people with me every step of the way is just so much more fun! It was always a great feeling to see the e-mail notifications of reviews popping up in my Inbox, and to see those same names every time, knowing there were people actually waiting for the next chapters to come out. I don’t think there’s a bigger compliment than that, and you people gave me that compliment, so thank you, I really, really mean it!

It was fun to see how some people – everyone really – had their own preferences as to which character they wanted to see coming out on top, and everyone had a different favourite character, Hell, even douchebag Acrus had a small group of loyal fans who kept demanding I bring him back to life. It was tempting guys, but I always felt extremely unattracted to the whole “they’re not really dead”-trope. I think it cheapens the drama of a character’s death, so I want to avoid it at all costs whenever I write. It’s a lazy, cheap and almost cheating way to evoke drama without actually losing a character, and I stay away from it.

It was also tricky to write in different ways depending on which character I was currently writing a chapter for.

Falnas’ chapters had to be lighthearted, humorous, adventurous and plain fun, and they had the added challenge of keeping things small-scale and yet engaging, because huge plots of murder and violence don’t befit a Thieves’ Guild storyline. Falnas never kills anybody apart from Mercer at the end, and his storyline is extremely limited in violence and pure action – exactly how I intended it to be. Falnas’ chapters had to be a good and fun adventure without complex emotional drama or super-powered epic battles. He was just a regular guy, trying to find his niche in a group of regular guys. There was nothing supernatural or heroic about the Thieves’ Guild, and the storyline and writing style had to reflect that.

Keljarn’s chapters, on the other hand, were much more direct and more packed with action and violence, with the thread of “how much is vengeance really worth” woven throughout. Falnas’ story had no real morality or ethic theme running through it, but Keljarn’s all the more. His story is one of vengeance and the way the pursuit of it can turn good people into evil ones. It had the strong theme of how dangerous the idea of “I only do evil things when I really have to” is. Thankfully for him, it ended on a high note, and he realized his errors just in time.

Then there was Siari. Hoo boy, I can’t begin to explain the challenge of writing a mute character! Even the simplest dialogue or communication becomes an effort to narrate, but it was an effort that remained a lot of fun during the entire story! The added challenge was writing a psychopath – which she effectively was apart from the very end – when you’re not really a psychopath yourself (at least, I hope, heh). Her story was one of a person discarding all conscience and emotion simply to feel a part of something. Her traumas caused her to box everything up inside and never let emotions surface, but in the end, no feelings can stay buried forever. Astrid deserved some more love too, so I took care to make her motivations more understandable, without actually changing them. Siari caused the most division under you guys, with some people demanding that I make her die horribly, and others loving her to bits.

Then there was Acrus. The guy everyone loved to hate, and yet, I consistently got readers asking me to bring him back. The fact of the matter was, while Acrus had a well-defined personality in my mind, it just made sense to have him die when he did. His redemption was what started Roë down the dark path, and the cruel irony of it just _worked_ for me.

And lastly, of course, was Roë. From the start, I knew I’d feel immensely guilty for what I was going to put her through in the end, but like I said, the stories and their endings had been predetermined from the very beginning, and just like you guys, I had to watch as she became ever more unhinged, until it finally claimed her life. Excluding Falnas, I honestly think that of the four characters who committed serious crimes, Roë was perhaps the only innocent one. There were people who considered her overdramatic or theatrical, but I humbly think those people underestimated all the things she was going through. She’d lost her life, her friends, and finally even the only person she truly loved, and all that while being bestowed a toxic power far too strong for her to handle. Everyone despised her, everyone considered her an intruder and undeserving of her status. Dealing with such terrible things, I think everyone would lose their minds. You can feel it in the writing style too, I think. Roë’s chapters were always long and explored the emotional aspects much more than the others.

And then, as the wild card who made appearances and disappearances, was Arska. Everyone enjoyed her appearances and so did I, but like I told some reviewers, she’s much more complex than just being a flippant murder machine. She represents what people become when they are virtually omnipotent and are hampered zero accountability. Even the best person would gradually begin choosing the path of least resistance, i.e. violence, if he or she could simply destroy anyone and get away with it every time. She’s, in a way, a representation of the one playing the actual game. The player also has to answer to anyone, and eventually (s)he too, stops caring about the many enemies, and sometimes innocents, (s)he mows down during the course of the game. The same thing happened to Arska, and that’s why she’s so recognizable. Of course, her peculiar sense of humour often obfuscated her moral implications, but I think Roë’s final chapter does a good job of putting the spotlight on it in the end, however briefly.

Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, fav’ing, and simply showing interest in my story, whether or not you took the time to actually write a review, or you were simply there, reading the chapters as they came out, I value the readership immensely. If you’re only reading the story now, after it’s done, please don’t hesitate to shoot me a review or a PM and let me know what you thought! For those who’d like to read more of my stuff, there’s always From the Underground for the Fallout fans, or Travels of the Chosen One, though I do have to warn you of the uh, younger age your humble author had when writing the latter. I’m also currently still writing Devil Nights, which is a story in the Shadowrun setting, but don’t worry, you can read and enjoy the story just fine without knowing the setting or the background, so if you’d like to waste some more time on my scribbling, you’re more than welcome to follow Katie’s adventures as she navigates the turbulent nights of Hong Kong, searching for answers to the strange things that happened to her that one night in Kowloon Walled City.

Not much left for me to say, much as I’d like to go on typing this forever just so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that Five Threads is now officially over, so I’ll just be a man and suck it up, and make the following paragraph my last.

I loved writing Five Threads immensely, and I certainly hope you enjoyed reading it to a significant extent too. I’ll gladly take a bow if you feel I deserve to, and I look forward to seeing you guys later, as reviewers or just as people who want to have a chat. Those wishing to add me to their steam accounts can certainly do so, go ahead and ask for my ID in a PM, I’m always happy to chatter and play video games! That’s all she wrote. Goodbye Falnas, Keljarn, Siari, Acrus, Roë and Arska, I’m going to miss you. Yeah, even you, Rijada Fireborn!

 


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